


On the Side of the Alpha

by Feral_Fic_Writer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, M/M, Omega Sherlock, PTSD John, Past Sexual Abuse, Rehumanization (of sorts), Slow Burn, Trope Inversion, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 64,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feral_Fic_Writer/pseuds/Feral_Fic_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A/B/O-AU.  Inverted. In this world the alphas are the lowest on the social hierarchy used for studding, home protection, and hard labor primarily. Oh, and as cannon fodder. </p><p>Anyway, you know the drill: John is invalided back to London and needs a "sponsor." Mycroft meanwhile has been after Sherlock to get himself some slave, alpha muscle for "protection." Sherlock's resistant.  At least, until... </p><p>Lifelines cross, stars collide, fate intervenes... Yeah, all that stuff.</p><p>Follows BBC series canon, season one, episode one. All credit for original story and characters goes to their original authors with my great admiration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Walk in the Park

As the saying went, he didn’t hear the shot that hit him. Everything fell silent in the seconds before the bullet tore through his shoulder; blowing him backwards, away from the man whose life he was trying to save. Breath knocked out of him as his body hit the hot concrete, an already bloody hand grew slicker when it grabbed at the spreading stain soaking his uniform.

_I’ve been hit._

The instant his disbelief evaporated, the world roared into sound around him again; everything so loud: the rapid-fire of machine-guns, distant explosions, the screams and shouts of men.

_Please God, let me live!_

His last thought before the desert sun turned black was that even if he’d been able to speak his prayer out loud, in the midst of such a racket he doubted any deity could have heard it.

* * *

 

John sat bolt upright in bed, shoulder clasped in his hand. Sides heaving, lungs starved for air, he pulled in huge gulps of it. The moment he realized where he was, that it was just another nightmare; he threw himself back against the mattress. Heart pounding, he laid there pressing himself as flat as he could, hoping desperately that none of the patrolling night staff had heard him. If they knew he he’d had another nightmare, that he was destabilized, he’d lose his walk again tomorrow.

Tears filled his eyes. Struggling to keep his face from crumpling, John silently swore, shamed by how much he’d been reduced since being invalided.

_Buck up, Watson. You're being ridiculous. Crying over something so simple as the possibility of missing out on a walk._

Even as he thought this, however, John knew his internal chiding was far from the truth. The tears were for the terror the dream stirred, the men who’d fought and died alongside him. He pressed the heels of his palms into eyes that stung still from the horrors he’d seen, the visions that continued to haunt him. He drew in a deep breath. Fight though he did, John knew tonight he was losing the battle. Silent sobs jarred sharply loose the pains held in his aching body, even as they further-cinched the band constricting his heart. It had been growing ever tighter with the loss of what little freedoms he'd had.

John cursed himself once again for begging to live when the shot hit him. 

And then he cursed whatever sharp-eared god had answered.

* * *

Nightmare attack having gone mercifully un-noted, John got his walk. The air was crisp, the smell of exhaust and people and well, pretty much everything, exhilarating after the stale, antiseptic air of the center. With the swirl of the city around him, John felt like a boy again.

_Or, maybe not quite._

His blue eyes flickered up to the broad shoulders stalking ahead of him before tracing down the connecting tether between them. He’d been lucky to grow up in the country where, despite his beta step-father’s harshness, he had rarely been leashed as a pup.

While he didn’t dare bring his fingers up to pull against the choking weight, John shrugged against the heavy collar, still unaccustomed to the feeling. The collar was designed to focus pressure on the front of the neck, meant to stimulate the submission created by a conquered throat under the maw of a stronger alpha. The only sense John got from it, however, was that his breathing was constricted, which did nothing to alleviate his persistent sense of panic.

Military alphas were never collared on their bases or out in the field. This was one of the reasons he had opted into the service. Another was, outside breeding centers and hard labor, there weren’t a lot of other professional venues open for alphas. And the army was one of the few places to allow an alpha with his rare medical training to practice.

Hobbling far faster than his leg was comfortable with, John tried to keep pace with his handler. Not yet entirely used to moving with a cane, a miss-step stuttered his stride drawing a sharp tug from the beta walking three steps in front of him. Even though the collar was padded in the back, alpha-sensitive, the jerk sent an angry jolt down his spine. John fought to school his features, simultaneously caught between wanting to gasp out or snarl. Both reactions were thankfully cut off, however, when his handler, Tobias, suddenly stopped. It came so unexpectedly John almost stumbled into him.

“Christ, I have to shit. I need a toilet.”

Tobias’ conversational skills were generally lacking, not that this really had an impact on John. He knew the man wasn’t actually speaking to him anyways. He rarely did, unless it was to bark out a command. Seeing the squat, brick of a public restroom in the park’s distance, Tobias gave John’s lead another abrupt pull and headed off that direction.

As they drew closer Tobias stopped again, this time alongside a bench. He tied John’s leash off to one of its iron arms.

“You stay here like a good boy, Watson.”

Despite the fact Tobias was a beta, he had a good four inches on John. He drew himself up in a stereotypical posture of alpha aggression. “I’ve read your file… All about that fake leg of yours. You try and fucking run on me and you know what’ll happen!”

“Yes, sir.” John kept his voice deferential, eyes averted. It was hard not to growl, but if growing up with his beta/omega family hadn't already well prepped him in how to answer other dynamics, he’d had plenty of practice with curbing his instincts in the service.

With a curt nod of approval at his answer, Tobias hurried off towards the bathroom. John stared down at his loosely tied leash. It wouldn’t be at all difficult to get loose. He wished fervently, and not for the first time, his leg really was “fake” as everyone claimed. It had woken him with severe pain that morning and at present throbbed terribly. Given this, John knew running was out of the question.

But then, even if he did run, it wasn’t like he had anywhere to go. Besides, even if he could get out of the locked collar, they’d chipped him when he joined the military. And while the chip was dormant now it could easily be reactivated. If he was caught, which he surely would be, crippled as he was... Without a sponsor, PTSD diagnosed, just back from a battleground… It would be far too easy for the courts to declare him feral.

Even knowing all this, John hated himself for how quickly he dismissed the idea. Rather than indulge in further self-loathing, however, he decided it would serve him better to focus his energies on being thankful. And he was, extremely grateful he hadn’t been forced to follow Tobias into the toilets, subjected to having to listen to the man shit. So, he told himself, it shouldn’t matter he’d been tied to the bench like a disobedient hound; it was still a blessing to have a few minutes to himself out in the world. Determined to take advantage of it, John lifted his head and glanced around the park.

A sweet, milky scent caught his attention.

Down one of the walkways he spied a young, omega woman pushing twin toddlers in a stroller. Not that he’d really ever wanted any of his own, but the kids were cute and John couldn’t help but smile. His smile vanished when his gaze lifted and he saw the mother’s face. She’d seen him looking at her children and had also seen his leash. It had only taken a second for her to recognize him as an unattended alpha. Her expression couldn’t have spoken more clearly than if she’d actually shouted at him.

_Predator!_

John dropped his eyes, his head dipped just slightly.

_Right… Never make eye contact. Don’t smile…_

Despite shifting his posture to be as non-threatening as possible, in his peripheral vision John watched the woman push her stroller up onto the grass and swerve a good ten feet from the path to avoid passing right beside him. The action made something in his chest twist painfully and his collar suddenly seemed about three times tighter. Wanting to distract himself from this sensation before he got himself into a good panic, he shifted his gaze street-side, where a beta was overseeing a small crew of alpha laborers repairing a section of road.

A couple teenage beta girls dressed in school uniforms stopped on the pavement to make catcalls at the alpha workmen. Their light voices twisted vulgar, shouting about hard muscles and harder knots. John watched the men’s postures stiffen as they continued to work, trying to ignore the girls. It was common knowledge that the collars such laborers wore were designed to shock upon speaking as a means of protecting the public from uncouth alpha utterances.

After humoring the girls for a minute, the beta forewoman finally scolded and shooed the giggling teens off. John felt a surge of relief seeing them moving the opposite direction, away from him. As he was, he’d be an easy target. His current collar didn’t presently sport a muting feature and he didn’t relish the notion of being goaded into doing something that would merit this addition either.

Girls gone, the roadcrew seemed to double their efforts, no doubt using the work to burn off whatever emotions their hecklers had stirred up in them. Despite what had just happened, John quietly envied them. He missed the burn of taxed muscles, days filled with long, rushed, active hours that left him exhausted.

God, he felt useless.

His mind flitted to the gun hidden inside a cutout of one of his thick medical texts. He’d been so lucky no one ever bothered him about his books-- unless it was to doubt he had enough brains to really read them.

_It would only take one well-placed shot._

He remembered the last time he’d dared to pull the gun out: the feel of the cool metal cylinder pressed into the tender skin under his jaw.

“John? John Watson?”

It took a moment for John to register the hail, a few seconds longer to shake himself out of his morbid reverie. Pulled back into the present, he saw a man approaching. He scented the air without being obvious, eyes assessing as the other drew nearer.

_Chubby, beta, rumpled, professional._

_Harmless._

John allowed himself to relax, just slightly.

“Ah, that is you!” The man’s face broke into a pleased grin. It barely faltered when the beta realized John still hadn’t placed him. “Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.”

John’s eyes widened, not just because Mike had changed quite a bit, but because he extended his hand, offering it to shake, despite him being visibly leashed.

 _But then_ , John’s memory supplied, _Mike always was a good one._ Too liberal for some's taste. _  
_

“Yes. Sorry. Yes, Mike.” Outside ranks, it had been so long since John had spoken with or been spoken to so personably by someone who wasn’t another alpha it took him a minute to regain his equilibrium. “Hello. Hi.”

“Yeah, I know. I got fat!” Mike said this with a self-deprecating grin, obviously pleased now to be recognized.

It was the kind of comment that only a beta or an omega would make. Often seen as misplaced vanity, acknowledging such a shift in oneself wasn't something an alpha would ever willingly do. Such an admission would immediately lower one, making him/her openly vulnerable. Still, John had enough social savvy to attempt the proper non-alphic reply.

“No. Course not.”

Ignoring how unconvincing his response sounded, Mike waved the comment off with the flutter of a hand. “I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?”

“He got shot."

Both Mike and John started at the sound of Tobias’ voice. Their cheeks heated simultaneously too, although for different reasons. Tobias studied John and then his gaze flickered over to Mike, expression disapproving.

“This your alpha, Mate?” Mike’s voice was curious but far less abashed than he looked.

Tobias snorted in disgust. “As if… Not likely I’d let his genes into the family pool. No, Watson here’s being kept at the Central Center until they figure out what to do with ‘im. I’m just his keeper at the moment, thank god!”

“Is he coming up for sponsorship then?” Mike shot an apologetic look at John, obviously uncomfortable to be talking about him as though he wasn’t standing right there.

John offered a tight grin of thanks back, though this was observed and earned him a new frown from his handler.

Contemporary alpha “sponsorship” was essentially a modern slave system and took all sorts of forms. An alpha could find him or herself taken in by an omega wanting a reliable heat mate, or a seeder. Sometimes, if an alpha was fortunate, such an arrangement might eventually turn into a true bonding. With a bond came greater freedoms if not outright emancipation, since mated alphas were generally held by society as relatively stable.

Recognized legal bonding happened less and less these days, however. Instead, it had become the fashion in the last few decades for working omegas who wanted a family too, not to bond but to still keep an alpha around to fertilize them and then raise the children after they were born. Even if they weren’t naturally the most “maternal,” alpha protectiveness had proven to make many alphas acceptable caretakers.

Beta/beta fertility rates had drastically dropped over the last decades as well. In vitro treatments didn’t work with omegas and had become increasingly ineffective with beta females too, so now mixed omega/beta couples, beta/beta couples, and evermore socially accepted omega/omega couples often privately adopted an alpha to have a handy stud around. Though generally the alpha was suppressed until his/her seed was needed.

Outside these times, domestic alphas were used to keep yards or for home security purposes. But if not kept in the home, in the city, alphas were most often rented out to different labor companies, their wages going to their sponsors. The companies generally managed teams of alphas in menial or physical jobs. Not many alphas held “white collar” positions; since it was common knowledge their dynamic needed a good amount of exercise and hard work to stay tame. Plus, it was still widely held that  alphas' hormonally limited abilities to multitask or sit still, left them ill-suited for the complexities of corporate structures, social networking, and the office work environment.

“Up for sponsorship? He’s been available for three months now and not even a nibble, from what I’ve heard.” Tobias ground the words like salt into all John’s invisible woundings.

“Isn’t that right, Watson?”

Before John had to suffer the humiliation of answering, Mike cut in, “Really?”

“Would you mind if I spent some time with John, then? It’s just, my wife and I have been thinking about getting an alpha, and well, I know him already.”

Tobias eyed Stamford suspiciously. John was suddenly hopeful, knowing how much the man hated it when it was his turn and he had to spend his shift “exercising” the state’s alpha wards.

“We can do it so that it all looks on the on the up and up.” Mike offered this when he saw Tobias hesitate. “I’ll register for responsibility even. Just let me have him for a few hours and I’ll meet you back here. Return him just as good as I got. What do you say?”

These words and the thought he could spend the morning on his own without having to drag around a crippled alpha was made to appeal even more when Mike pulled out his ID card and added a twenty pound note. That sealed the deal. Tobias pulled out his phone from the center. A few taps and all the proper paperwork was called up. A swipe of Mike’s ID and he’d just been given a three-hour “interview” window as a possible sponsor.

Ten minutes later found John still blinking in disbelief as he sat on the bench he'd previously been tied to, Tobias-free, a Stamford purchased coffee warming his hands. Taking a sip, he was grateful for the scalding brew on his tongue. It kept him from thinking too much about the leash now tucked into his jacket (done only after Mike’s encouragement) and what it might be like to be essentially owned by his former-classmate.

“Are you still at Bart’s, then?” John didn’t know where to start, but the silence had become uncomfortable

“Teaching now." Mike nodded. "Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!”

He laughed then and John couldn’t help but join in, chuckling softly, suddenly warmed at being included in Mike’s definition of “brightness.” Maybe he'd be allowed to work in Stamford's lab. It was a nice thought.

The laughter faded and Mike's expression became serious. “So what about you? Didn’t opt for one of those plush breeding farms out in the country? You’re at the Central London Center instead, trying to get picked up?”

As a boy, John had snuck into a few of those “plush farms” that peppered the hillsides of his youth, wanting to know what possible future awaited him. Though there had been numerous reforms on alpha treatment since then, the memories of what he’d seen still haunted him.

“I may end up on one still yet…” John shifted his cup from one hand to the other, clenching his left fist tight to still its sudden tremble. “I thought that the fact I came with a bit of a pension might make me attractive for a private contract, even if I’m not immediately hireable for some kind of heavy work. But…"

If his age, smaller stature, and physical injuries didn't already put people off, his education and military experience tended to.

“Anyway, if nothing comes through, I have another month until I’m relocated and…”

Before he could finish his sentence, Mike broke in. “Ah, and until then you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else but the city. That’s not the John Watson I know.”

Irritation flared in John’s chest at being interrupted. He tried to hold off on his alpha instinct to get snappy, but his mouth moved on its own accord: a lot had changed since Bart's.

“Yeah, but I’m not the John Watson ...”

This time he was almost grateful when Mike jumped in, glad he didn’t get far in what would have been a bad line of discussion. Unfortunately, Mike’s new line wasn’t choice either.

“Couldn’t Harry help?”

Damn, Stamford had a great memory. John instantly regretted that he’d ever opened up to Mike about his family at all. But then, he’d been young and most likely tipsy on illicit alcohol.

_No. I hadn’t asked her. I wouldn’t._

His mind flashed back to the package he’d received from his sister (no visit), his second week at the center. It contained only a secondhand smart phone. Hers. With a post-it note attached, written in an alcoholic scrawl, telling him that she had recently terminated her omega/omega bond with Clara and instructing him to call her once he got his “situation resolved.”

“Yeah, like _that’s_ gonna happen!”

A beta couple walking past eyed him and John cringed at himself for his outburst. Such a display of temper wasn’t going to help his cause at all. He turned his gaze cautiously back to Mike, wondering why he was asking about Harry if he had any real interest in taking him on.

Mike read his searching expression in an instant and offered an uncomfortable shrug.

“Me and my wife aren’t really looking for an alpha. We’ve been blessed… Two kids on our own.”

John looked away, realizing now just how much he’d been hoping that Mike might actually sponsor him, and how dangerous such hope was.

“Happy for you. That’s great.”

A dark wave of envy surged through him at Mike for his pleasant beta life: job, mate, children. John suddenly wanted to break something, but he held the feeling back until something cracked inside him instead. Then he reminded himself that Mike had never been anything but kind to him and that, at least, this ruse was going to give him a few stolen hours outside the center.

Perhaps sensing his disappointment, Mike was immediately apologetic.“Yeah, Mate. I hate to say it, but I actually only mentioned the sponsorship thing because you looked like you could use a break."

“I did… I do… I mean, thank you.” John didn’t want to sulk: that might make Mike want to return him sooner than he had too. He forced a grin he didn’t feel at all. “And I’m quite happy to be rid of that arse that was ‘tending’ to me. Even if just for a bit."

Mike’s face became pensive at this. Realizing what he’d just said about his beta keeper to another beta, John quickly brought his coffee cup to his mouth before he said anything else stupid.

What his old classmate finally offered in response, however, was nothing John expected.

“You know, John… Even though I don’t need an alpha, I did have a conversation earlier today with someone else who said he was going to ‘have to’ sponsor one. The guy's an omega chap I know. Hangs around Bart’s quite a lot. Funny, he was complaining about having to secure an alpha as a way of getting rid of a ‘tending arse’ as well.”

John’s brows rose as Mike rose up from the bench beside him. Once he was upright, Mike tossed his head in the direction of the school.

“Couldn’t hurt anything, so why don’t we go see if he’s still there?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no sense if my little attempt at subversion here will be even remotely successful, but your thoughts on this exercise are appreciated. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	2. Wake Up Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's side of the coin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I was completely floored by the response to the first chapter of this fic. Over 100 Kudos in less than 24 hours? Amazing! Not to mention all you darlings who took the time to comment. Thank You! I was so encouraged, and since I didn't have to work this weekend, I sat down and the next chapter just flew from my fingers. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

There were many ways to start a day off poorly, but waking up to find Mycroft perched in one of his armchairs like some giant, ginger vulture was among Sherlock’s top ten worst. It ranked even above rousing an alley, smelling of garbage, hung over, and finding oneself being pissed on by bum.

Which, Sherlock had also had the misfortune to actually experience.

To make matters even more infuriating, his brother was bookended by two statuesque, serious-looking, and barely-suppressed, young alphas. A male and female, trained fighters, although the woman was the truer weapon, his blinking eyes told him.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

Though his omegan instincts urged him towards immediate fight or flight at this invasion of his nest, Sherlock remained stretched out on his couch as he was: his voice being the only thing to rise.

“Get out!”

Mycroft, of course, ignored him. He remained unmoved while Sherlock wondered how long his brother and entourage of intruders had been watching him. Long enough, apparently, that already his brother’s omega kin-scent and the alphas’ musk were overriding the comforting odors of Mrs. Hudson’s butter-biscuits and the assorted chemicals of his experiments.

Considering the timing and the way Mycroft had so neatly ensconced himself, Sherlock knew he needed to check the flat for cameras again. This was one of the reasons he hated sleeping. But he had been up for days, exhausted to the point he must have at last drifted off while lying on his sofa wandering the corridors of his mind palace.

A vein began to throb in Sherlock’s temple. He turned his head at last and glared so hard at Mycroft that his eyes began to ache.

“Now Sherlock, I understand your ire.” Mycroft’s tone held its usual condescension. “But my presence and that of these two here, only serves to illustrate the point I have been trying to drive home to you these past several months.

“In your recovery, you have gone from one extreme to the other and I fear you’re going to drive yourself to relapse again. Plus, this is simply no good at all: you getting yourself so tired that not only one alpha, but two, have entered your flat with you unawares.

“Now, if you had an alpha of your own to mind your territory… Look after you like a good alpha should. Maybe even one trained to protect as these two are… Well, you could perhaps take them along on your little outings.”

That got a rise out of Sherlock and he sat up, ignoring the way, suppressed or not, both alphas’ nostrils flared when the loosely tied dressing gown he wore slipped off his shoulder.

“They’re crimes, not outings! I’ll not have you diminishing the importance of The Work!”

Mycroft remained unperturbed at the outburst and merely hummed in response. “Yes, alright then… Your _work_.

"Well, even in these advanced times, you really should have a tame alpha along with you for safety.” Mycroft motioned to his sidekicks. “Does the scent of either appeal at all? I can sign one over to you in a minute.”

“All I smell at the moment is a meddling twit!” Sherlock snapped. “Now get out, Mycroft! And take your two thugs with you! No doubt you’ll need them both to pry that fat, interfering bottom of yours through my front door again!”

Poking at Mycroft’s weight was a sure fire way to annoy and though his older brother’s expression remained impassive, the slight stiffening of his shoulders pleased Sherlock immensely. This pleasure was short-lived, however.

“I am only trying to help you here, Sherlock.” Mycroft rose gracefully from his chair, familiar enough with his brother to know that soon his younger sibling would likely begin throwing things. Being pelted by Sherlock wouldn’t have been too concerning normally, except that the apartment’s arsenal was so eclectic.

“I am not the only one who’s troubled by how you’re carrying on. Mummy’s worried herself to illness over you again.”

The fury in Sherlock’s features wavered for only a moment hearing his mother invoked.

“Well, if you’re so anxious about Mummy’s health, as well as my own, perhaps you should stop providing her with such detailed reports! Bloody tattle-tale.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed in his best put-upon-older-brother voice. “Must you be so childish? Resorting to name calling… _Really_? Remember your dynamic, please, and let’s leave such juvenile behavior to the alphas.”

The alphas at Mycroft’s flanks stiffened at this, but he didn’t even think to offer an apology at the insult. Sherlock suddenly wondered if they were really so well-trained or if the sleek collars they wore carried a muting feature. He wished he had a silencing shock-collar for Mycroft.

If being poked at about his weight was Mycroft’s Achilles, Sherlock’s was being called on his occasionally developmentally arrested behaviors. Unfortunately, there was no response he could come up with at the moment that wouldn’t re-inforce his older brother’s critique, so Sherlock found himself falling quiet instead, all the while fuming at Mycroft’s manipulations.

Sensing his victory, Mycroft grinned. Sherlock took some small solace in noting once again how poorly the expression fit him.

“Now that I have your attention, Sherlock. If you don’t acquire an alpha within the next week, Mummy’s charged me with finding one for you... For your own well-being. Beyond your safety in the city, she’s also concerned that you’ve been suppressed too long and could use a good…

“You’re not to mention my biology!”

Mycroft shook his head seeing how instantly livid Sherlock had become. Given all his brother’s anatomical explorations, he’d never understood Sherlock’s squeamishness about his cycles. After all, it wasn’t as if he was an alpha, with the base shame of knots and ruts, and dirty, leaking seed. No, omegan functions were something to be proud of. Slick and heats and pupping were the stuff, not just of high science, but art as well. Throughout modern history in fact, all aspects of omegan fertility were lauded and abounded in paintings, music, literature, and poetry.

Rather than get involved in such a futile discussion, however. Mycroft diverted.

“Biology aside, Sherlock. Your counselor, Dr Smythe, from rehab, agrees that you need the responsibility. He and Mummy both feel taking on an alpha will prove your commitment to the next step in your continued recovery.”

“Where do you all get off? Having discussions and deciding my life for me, without my even being present? I am a free omega, just like you! Not some alpha that needs to be managed!”

Mycroft raised his open hand in a gesture intended to placate, seeing Sherlock had just palmed a sizeable geode from the coffee-table, where it had been serving as a makeshift paperweight. His movement was also meant to still the alphas who’d simultaneously bristled at Sherlock’s words while drawing protectively closer to their current sponsor.

“Before you go throwing things, or engaging in other fruitless acts of rebellion… Mummy asked me to communicate that she’s prepared to have you brought home again, omega or not, if you don’t comply.”

Sherlock’s hand dropped at the horror of the thought.

It had happened before when she had been “concerned” about him. And Mycroft’s ambushes had nothing on his mother’s wiles. Not to mention the last time she’d caught him, he’d passed three weeks shut up in his childhood room until she felt he’d adequately rested. He’d spent the majority of that time locked like an unruly pup into a scruffing-collar that had made him horribly lethargic. It had been hell.

“But I’m in the middle of a case.”

Mycroft’s brow twitched in a rare show of sympathy seeing how Sherlock had suddenly deflated. There was good reason he allied with his mother rather than opposed.

“Well, as I said, you have a week to make arrangements.” He waved again to his attending alphas. “Does this make either of these any more appealing to you, Brother?”

The geode whizzed past Mycroft’s head, so close it dislocated a few gingery wisps before it hit the wall behind him. It bounced off, with a loud “thunk” leaving a considerable dent in the plaster. Fortunately, Mycroft had the remote handy for the alphas’ collars and was able to give them enough of a jolt to catch them just before they lunged.

* * *

 

The sound of the bodybag being unzipped was sweet music to Sherlock’s ears and he desperately needed something to override the lingering echo of Mycroft’s words in his head. It was especially annoying considering he’d deleted their conversation twice already. The instant the zip split wide enough, he peered at the corpse within and for a moment all thoughts of his unfortunate circumstances left him.

Lowering his head slightly, his nostrils flared as he sniffed. Most people declared betas to be scentless, but then again, most people were stupid and completely unobservant. Sherlock knew better. He not only smelled beta, but clogged arteries, and a lack of terror.

_Heart failure in his sleep then…_

“How fresh?”

Grey eyes glanced up. Sherlock frowned slightly as Molly drew closer. He could smell her desire to please him, as though her body language didn’t proclaim hopeful submission loudly enough already.

Yet another omega who’d benefit from an alpha her life far more than he ever would.

“Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him.” As if this would make her offering more pleasing to Sherlock, Molly added, “He was nice.”

The man’s temperament, however, mattered nothing to him, he was dead, after all. As he straightened himself, Sherlock shot her a false smile anyway. He looked away quickly after; so as not to have to witness the young woman’s fluttery, pleased preening.

“Fine. We’ll start with the riding crop.”

Twenty minutes later Sherlock’s arm ached from the strength of his blows but, despite the fact he knew he was being overzealous in his flogging, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. It didn’t help at all that with every strike he found himself picturing his brother’s smug face or pudgy backside.

Finally, however, Sherlock realized that if he kept on like this, he was going to ruin his experiment and Molly’s “nice” corpse. He laid his crop down reluctantly at last. No sooner had he set it aside, than Molly appeared next to him, eyes glittering.

While he’d not paid attention, she’d obviously been watching.

Although, like most modern omegas, Molly suppressed, Sherlock immediately noted her heightened scent. His mind flickered with momentary wonder as to whether she might be one of those more primal natured omegas who liked a little alphic roughness as part of her heat play. Given her temperament, it seemed both likely and boring.

Sherlock quickly deleted the thought.

Molly was sharp enough to know that her pheromones had spiked, so she tried to deflect away from her excitement. “So…” Her eyes fell on the crop. As they did, her tongue flickered out unconsciously. ”Bad day, was it?”

Beginning to catalog the results that were already visible, Sherlock turned his attention to his notebook and ignored Molly’s lame attempts at humor. It was his usual response, but today her jest was also far too close to the truth.

_You have no idea._

“I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man’s alibi depends on it. Text me.”

“Listen, I was wondering… Maybe later, when you’re finished ...”

Sherlock looked up from his writing, slightly alarmed that his experimental display of alphic aggression had obviously stirred Molly far more than she’d likely fully realized. This was evidenced in the fact that rather than simply agree with him, she was trying to continue in conversation.

Studying her mouth as words tripped awkwardly out, Sherlock was hit with an even more unsettling observation. “Are you wearing lipstick? You weren’t wearing lipstick before.”

“I, er... I refreshed it a bit.”

As he stared at the sudden brightness of Molly’s lips, Sherlock wondered if she was aware of the implications of such cosmetic applications. Color added like that was usually intended to simulate the body as it appeared in a state of sexual arousal or to subconsciously align one orifice with the slick hue of another.

It was another thought to delete immediately. Sherlock’s pale eyes purposefully dropped to the safer sightlines of his notebook.

“Sorry, you were saying?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee.”

Having already noted a few observations that would have to be amended, Sherlock sighed in frustration. He had a level six case that needed to be solved and his day had been filled with too many distractions already.

_A quiet place to reflect is needed. Coffee would help too._

“Black, two sugars, please. I’ll be upstairs.”

Sherlock headed off, Molly’s soft reply barely heard.

Body on autopilot, he traversed the halls on his way to Mike Stamford’s lab, lost in his thoughts. It was usually quiet there and Stamford was only mildly annoying most times. Gliding through the corridors Sherlock paid no mind to the omega and beta medical staff and students bustling through the halls and even less to the alpha custodians wheeling bins and wielding mops.

By the time he reached the lab he’d solved the case, all he needed was confirmation.

Stepping into Stamford’s space unannounced Mike looked up from his research.

“Hello, Sherlock. Back again, already?”

As he nodded his affirmation, Sherlock’s eyes caught sight of the paper sitting on the edge of one of the lab’s tables. The article on the front page was obviously intent on declaring more mis-information about the ridiculously termed “Serial Suicides.” It was another annoyance to add to his day that his disruption of the Yard's press conference had apparently little impact.

He wondered if there’d be another body. He hoped so. Then maybe Lestrade would finally bring him in on the case.

Sherlock grimaced, realizing he’d need to get his ridiculous alpha situation sorted out before that happened. The last thing he needed was a distraction from a case that might actually be interesting. Getting an alpha shut up in his flat would also mean that he wouldn’t be abducted by his mother’s black ops team in the middle of things.

But god, the idea of someone in his space. Living there, making sounds, touching things… probably chewing too loudly as well. Sherlock couldn’t help but loose a very un-omega like growl at the thought.

“Ah, what’s going on with you, Sherlock? Troubles today?” Mike had gone back to his slides, but the sound had drawn his attention back.

Sherlock met the man's bespectacled gaze and huffed. “I have to sponsor an alpha or my mother and her minions, including that tending arse, Mycroft, will never leave me in peace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and again, your feedback is super helpful!


	3. A Collision of Particles

Following Mike through the halls of Bart’s, the leaden ball weighting John’s guts seemed to grow heavier with every step.

“We’re almost there now. Things looking familiar, John?” Mike called over his shoulder.

Heartbeat accelerating to the point of panic, John simply nodded. His eyes darted to an older alpha pushing a mop bucket as he emerged from a lavatory. The alpha’s collar indicated he belonged to the hospital.

Watching the man limping off down the hall, John knew from his own time at Bart’s, the institution “sponsored” all its maintenance staff rather than contracting with an outside labor company. He’d learned this early on, as a student, having been mistaken for one of the crew more than once while attending. In fact, misplacing his student ID, one time, he’d even been detained among the Hospital’s alphas. Forced to spend a night with them, locked in their barracks down in the basement.

While private sponsorship was certainly no guarantee of a good life, spending the rest of his years relegated to that kind of arrangement, especially when he’d worked so hard to avoid it, definitely held no appeal. But with his time running out, John knew, at his age, it was well within possible futures for him.

That was, unless he somehow managed to secure sponsorship with Mike’s omega friend.

Having arrived at the lab and peering in through one of its windows, Mike looked back at him with a grin. “We’re in luck; he’s still here.”

Squaring his shoulders, John braced himself. He’d felt less apprehensive going into battle.

In Stamford's’s absence, Sherlock had relocated to the far end of the lab. He’d taken over Mike’s microscope and experiment, after he’d left to attend a meeting off campus. Feeling quite confident he’d figured out the solution the medical professor was looking for, Sherlock was just adding a few drops of it into a petri-dish, when he heard the door to the lab pushed open.

At first he thought it might be Molly again. She’d brought him two cups of coffee already and had promised him a third: coffee, was a new fixation for her, apparently. Despite the annoyance of her frequent “pop-in’s,” Sherlock had humored her. Partly, because her report on the bruised corpse solidified his deductions, but more so, he hadn’t eaten in two days, and his annoying transport had begun rumbling at him.

Instead of Molly, however, Mike entered the lab. Another man came in behind him. Without shifting, Sherlock quietly sniffed at the scents that wafted in with them. Given the newcomer’s height and his build, were it not for the waves of tense, alpha rolling ofF him, Sherlock thought he could have easily been mistaken for a beta.

 _Un-suppressed alpha. Surprising._ Though the scent didn't seem strong enough for the man to have been off his meds for too long.

Then Sherlock glanced up and saw the alpha’s _Central Center_ collar, among other things.

_Ah, so that explains it._

Alphas up for sponsorship were generally taken off their suppressants, so potential adopters could get their pure scent to assess compatibility. Lack of suppression, also meant adopters could get straight to breeding once they got their alpha home- if that was to be the alpha’s intended use.

Turning his attention back to the petri-dish, Sherlock cast his mind over all the pieces he’d pulled from his first cursory look and found the resulting portrait of the older, smallish alpha not only still surprising…but even more…

_Interesting._

It was the scent that first caught John upon entering the room. Medically-modulated, but there. Definitely omega. Not sweet, but spicy. Quite pleasant, actually. Seeing the omega attached to the scent, however, John’s stomach immediately dropped.

The man had the height of an alpha. He was lean and angular too, although his features still held traces of that societally prized omega-beauty. Sporting a thick mess of dark curls, the pale skin of a scholar, and dressed in clothes that were clearly tailored; he was a masterpiece.

John lowered his eyes as he limped further in, making sure to keep his gaze on the equipment and not the stunning omega.

 _What in the hell was Mike thinking? Leave it to a beta to be so blind._ _There’s no way such a person would ever entertain taking on a case like me._

More acutely aware of his clacking cane than he’d ever been previously, John stopped at the head of one of the tables, determined just to stand there until dismissed. It was the only way he knew to navigate what was sure to be, yet, another humiliating experience.

Meanwhile, Mike’s expression only flickered to cross for an instant, when he realized that Sherlock had been tampering with his experiment, before it settled back into curious expectance. His scientist’s heart was eager to observe the reaction, as these two very different elements were mixed. Wanting to keep the equation pure at the moment, rather than say anything, he seated himself at the side of the table and waited to see what would happen.

As the alpha, it wasn’t his place to speak, so John remained silent, looking for one of the others to start the conversation. He noted his old classmate’s face, and realized Mike was apparently waiting on the omega. However, he’d also observed the omega glance at him, and just how quickly his marvelous, pale eyes had dropped away again. The petri dish before him, obviously holding something far more interesting.

John returned his focus to the room. Since the omega wanted to ignore him, he was happy to do the same. Figuring from the omega’s response, that his cause had already been lost, he broke protocol and spoke to Mike; just as he would have if they’d been alone.

“Looks a bit different from my day.”

Mike chuckled at this, “You’ve no idea!”

Seeing Mike’s eyes had not lost their scheming shine, John wondered if there was something he’d missed. In response, he pulled himself into a more attentive posture, back straight, stance unconsciously military, despite the cane at his side.

Though he appeared to be engaged with his chemicals, Sherlock was actually completely absorbed in assessing the alpha Mike had obviously brought in for his consideration. Normally, he would have dismissed such a blatant maneuver in an instant and simply left the room. But he had been the one to articulate his need, and today his circumstances were different, weren’t they?

Besides, while he’d never really relished alpha scents, even un-suppressed, this one’s wasn’t overwhelming, or off-putting really. Sherlock imagined that without its overtones of worry, the man’s particular musk might even be rather pleasant.

More immediately pleasing, however, was every little verbal and nonverbal clue the alpha had dropped upon entry:

 _Doctor_ \- So the alpha was educated… _Unusual._ And while “educated” didn’t mean “not stupid” there was clearly a glint of something in those guarded, blue eyes.

 _Career military_ \- the alpha would be used to sparsity, order, and communal living. It also indicated he’d take orders and follow willingly, even when it wasn’t necessarily in his own best interest. And, it meant his instinctual alpha violence hadn’t been trained out of him, but honed.

_All helpful traits… Possibly._

Something in the alpha’s military stance also told Sherlock this was a man, alpha or not, who was used to standing out in front of the ranks and not in them.

_Still interesting._

Sherlock had to admit that so far, the only thing he found rather disappointing in Mike’s prospect, was learning that the alpha’s leg injury was psychosomatic. Having a naturally hobbled alpha would mean Mycroft couldn’t expect him to take him on his “outings,” as he’d so rudely put it. No, a disabled alpha would naturally stay at home, unable to easily hinder his _Work_.

Fortunately, there were ways Sherlock knew he could manipulate such an injury, encourage it to linger if he wanted… The mind didn’t heal without a reason.

_Yes. I just might be able to work with this._

Deciding he needed more information, he mentally reviewed the alpha’s dress: clean and sharp, but low quality.

_Still wearing a coat._

_Mike isn’t. No briefcase either. Must have stopped past his office first…_

As long as Sherlock had known the man, Stamford was always having to go fetch his phone from his coat pocket. He wondered suddenly if the alpha had been issued a mobile as part of his military alpha “retirement” package. That, and a cheap laptop, was a relatively standard practice, as bonus for good service.

_Time for a little experiment._

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” Sherlock’s own was tucked into the pocket of his great-coat, but Mike knew he was never without it, so he quickly added, “There’s no signal on mine.”

He could have damned the man when Mike nodded over to the lab’s wall-phone. “And what’s wrong with the landline?”

“I prefer to text.” Not a lie.

Watching the alpha tracking the conversation between them, Sherlock quickly ascertained two things. First, the alpha was not too terribly current with technology. Second, his omegan request had immediately triggered the alpha’s instincts to provide.

It was hard for Sherlock not to grin, as Mike fruitlessly patted his blazer, only to shrug. “Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

It was even harder to hide his pleasure when, after several seconds of resistance, the alpha lost his battle to his instincts and reached to pull a surprisingly new model phone from his pocket.

It had taken John some time to decide whether or not to offer the omega his mobile, so long he worried that it was now awkward. But there were reasons for his hesitation: to offer opened the possibility of an even more overt rejection, which he wasn’t keen on. He was also too aware that it was Harry’s phone he’d be providing and, not (in his mind yet) his own, which grated on his alpha pride.

In the end, however, his natural inclinations towards service won out. _Besides,_ he told himself, _it’s the decent thing to do._

“Er, here, Sir. Use mine.”

John thought he had prepared himself for the omega’s response, but apparently not, because when the man’s attention fell fully on him, he felt like he was being deciphered and dismantled, piece by piece.

It made his heart pound, but rather than drop his head and allow himself to be assessed as he should have, John met and held the omega’s gaze.

This little rebellion made something flutter in Sherlock’s stomach. It was faint, nothing more really than the single beat of paper-thin wings. Still, it surprised him. He deleted his surprise, and all possible implications of such a feeling, and replaced the moment, declaring the sensation “hunger.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Hunger,” however, he was forced to admit to himself, had never previously propelled him to pull out manners he usually didn’t expend on anyone, let alone alphas. Sherlock was aware too, that after having uttered what sounded and felt like surprisingly sincere thanks, he was also the first to avert his eyes. Not dropping them but, nonetheless, glancing over at Mike.

The beta looked all too pleased.

“Ah, where’s my manners… This is an old friend of mine, John Watson.”

 _Not “alpha,” or even “alpha-friend.” Just, “friend.”_ Sherlock tipped his head at the belated introduction.

Though doggedly apolitical, he was stunned for not having previously pegged Stamford as a liberal. It made him curious too about the beta and alpha’s connection, how and why they’d maintained it; this John Watson being so recently invalided. However, Sherlock also felt oddly assured, noting that since he’d first offered his phone, the alpha, John, hadn’t taken his eyes off him.

The alpha’s gaze wasn’t lustful, but it was intense. Assessing.

It didn’t drop either when he finally moved over to take the proffered mobile. Sherlock ignored the uncomfortable, blue-eyed scrutiny. Although the insubordination of it, despite the fact the alpha was obviously eager to be deemed acceptable, intrigued him. Rather than spend any more time observing the alpha, however, Sherlock turned away slightly on the pretense of texting, so he could study the phone.

_Such a bounty of new information._

Phone passed on, John was grateful to be able to drop his arm; the omega had waited so bloody long to actually take it. First he’d feared he was just going to be ignored indefinitely. Then he’d been afraid his hand was going to start shaking again.

Unfortunately, his relief at neither occurring was undercut by the disturbing linger of the electric tingle he’d experienced when their fingertips had brushed in the phone’s exchange.

Yes, the simple touch had definitely stirred something in him. John damned again the fact he was being withheld suppressants. He couldn’t afford to feel such things right now. Couldn’t allow himself to feel anything, really. Especially in a situation that was obviously as hopeless as this one.

Sherlock had made his initial decision to sponsor alpha John Watson, three minutes after he’d appeared in the lab. Seeing the phone the alpha had passed him, only further cemented his decision. Even though, he realized, he could have been subconsciously reacting to another who so clearly, also suffered from “sibling issues.”

_Time to get down to business then._

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry?”

Just hearing the countries’ names caused a wave of emotion to surge within John. But was the confidence in the question that really dislocated him. He tried to keep his expression straight, even as he felt himself frowning. It didn’t help that he was frowning at the omega’s back, while his questioner continued to type on his phone, seemingly oblivious to what he’d just provoked.

When John didn’t answer, after a few beats the question came again, this time with more words attached. They were accompanied by a glance from the omega that seemed to be speculating on either John’s mental faculties, or his hearing.

“Which was it then – Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The question had been asked by a “superior,” so John felt compelled to answer, regardless of the fact it distressed him.

“Afghanistan, Sir.”

Beyond John’s few and long-scattered friends like Mike, or what was left of his family, and the Center’s staff, generally this information about his service was held in his personal file, provided only to serious potential sponsors. John’s eyes flitted over to Mike before coming back to the omega. Mike had been with him since the park and hadn’t called or texted anyone that John had seen. So how this chap got his information…

“Sorry, Sir… But how did you know ...?”

His question was cut off by the arrival of another to the room. John immediately identified her as omega by her scent, and by the wide berth she gave him as she navigated her way to his questioner.

While he really wasn’t in a place to be upset by it, John felt himself growing heated that his own question was so easily dismissed by a simple cup of coffee. This sense of dismissal was heightened, as his phone was suddenly snapped shut and handed back to him with barely a nod.

After giving John his phone back, Sherlock reached for the proffered mug. “Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.”

It pleased him to note that while he’d obviously stirred John up with his question, the alpha was successfully holding himself in check.

 _That is a good sign._ Sherlock was under no delusions: any alpha of his was going to need a long fuse and patience in abundance.

He shifted his gaze back to Molly. She had gone quite pale at the scent of agitated alpha that filled the room.

 _Wait… too pale_.

Extending his experiment, Sherlock decided to ignore John a little longer.

“What happened to the lipstick?”

It was quickly obvious that while Sherlock held the ability to pretend the alpha in the room was invisible, Molly had no such aptitude. She began to flutter even more than usual.

“Er… It wasn’t working for me.”

“Really?”

It surprised Sherlock how quickly he’d become used to the added color.“I thought it was a big improvement.” He made a small circle with his hand around his own lips. “Your mouth’s too... _small_... now.”

Dipping his nose into the mug, Sherlock inhaled, trying to rid himself of Molly’s distressed scent. A taste of the hot brew and he realized her fear smell had permeated the coffee itself. He set it aside with a grimace.

It irritated John to be treated as though he wasn’t there, even though he knew he should have long been used to this by now. But while he didn’t find the new omega's light, honeyed scent at all appealing, her fear and then hurt flooding the room still triggered him.

This, and then seeing the little female, Molly, cut off so abruptly was truly maddening. John's expression was grave as he watched her slink her way to the door and scurry out.

The moment Molly left; he turned his eyes to Mike, not wanting to give the remaining git of an omega the satisfaction of his attention. Even as an alpha, uncouth as he was supposed to be, regardless of her dynamic or her appearance, John knew he’d never say such a bastardly thing to a lady.

The happy, smug look on Mike’s face only fueled John’s ire. Especially since there was nothing to be pleased about here. As far as he was concerned, it had been a miserable mess all the way around since they’d first stepped in the lab.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

So caught in his fuming, it took John a moment to realize the question was directed at him. What struck him next was how incredibly random the query was. Despite the fact he really had no desire now to talk to the still-unidentified, omega, John’s curiosity got the better of him.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.”

Looking over at John now, Sherlock was perplexed: the alpha seemed dislocated. Did he not understand?

“Would that bother you? Not that it really matters, I suppose. But if I sponsor you, it seems only fair of me to prepare you for the worst.”

At this point, “sponsor” was about the last word John expected to hear fall from the omega’s mouth. And despite how desperate he’d been to get out of the center, and the omega’s attractive scent, he was pretty convinced now that any prolonged contact with this friend of Mike’s would not end well.

“Who said anything about sponsoring, Sir?”

Sherlock was hard pressed not to sigh. The alpha should have been pleased at being accepted, but instead all John was giving him was a stupidly stunned look. Gliding back to where he’d been messing with Mike’s solutions, he retrieved his great-coat and put it on.

“I did. Just now.

“But then also this morning. I told Mike I was being forced into sponsoring an alpha.

“Now here he is, just after his meeting with an alpha 'friend,' clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan, who needs an owner.

“Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

John overlooked how the word “owner” stung him, still reeling from the fact the omega was talking sponsorship at all. And then there was the other informational leaps the man had made. It wasn’t prudent of him, given what was at stake here, but John’s mouth moved on its own anyways.

“How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?”

As he waited for an answer, John watched the omega wrap a rich-looking scarf around his neck. He wondered if it was weighted.

While collaring for omegas had gone out centuries ago in the overturn, there were still all sorts of stylistic derivations available. “O” fashions were rife with them since, unlike an alpha’s pained reaction, light pressure on the back of an omegan neck carried the hint of scruffing even contemporary omegas found grounding

Rather than answer his question, John found himself being ignored once more. The omega had retrieved his own phone from his pocket and slid it open. From where John stood, it looked to be receiving a signal just fine. He checked his frown when the omega began speaking again.

“You’re obviously being boarded at the Central London Center. I’ll call in and get your papers faxed over. Filled out, squared away."

John felt himself puff a bit defensively when the tall omega drew near him again.

“Once you're all clear they’ll let you out. Yes? I’m going to be busy; you’ll need to get yourself to the flat. Still, central London, so not too far from where you are now.

“We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. But for now, I've gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

Despite the shiver that ran up John’s spine learning that his apparently soon to be sponsor enjoyed carrying a riding crop around with him, he wasn’t about to let the omega just dart off. Not when he had so many questions.

“So, Sir, that’s it then?”

The man stopped halfway out the door and returned to stand just in front of him, displaying no hint of omega hesitance at all. “That’s what then?” Voice full of "O" privilege; his tone let John know he'd considered their “interview” over and didn’t appreciate being further detained.

John would have been much more cautious if he wasn’t so incredulous. Over the past months he’d spent hours being prepped for sponsorship interviews, every aspect of his life and even his physical body had been practiced for parading, question, and display.

“You’re serious? We’ve only just met and you’re going to take me on?”

“Problem?”

The fact the omega stared at him like he was stupid made John feel suddenly foolish. He turned towards Mike, but the beta just shrugged and smiled at him, as if to say: “You said you needed a sponsor. Now you’ve got one.”

Turning away from Mike with a shake of his head, John kept his eyes deferentially on the floor this time. “You don’t know a thing about me, Sir; I don’t have an address as to where I’m to meet you tomorrow; I don’t even know your name.”

Though he didn’t lift his head, he could feel the omega staring at him in that dissembling way he had. John heard the huff of an exasperated sigh.

“I know you’re an alpha Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got an omega brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife.

"And I know that your therapist at the Center thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid."

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the alpha before him. At that last bit, John's affected leg and cane awkwardly shuffled. When the alpha finally raised his head again, his expression was still confused, but now also properly abashed.

“That’s enough for me to be going on with, don’t you think?”

Sherlock couldn’t help the smugness that crept into the question. "I mean, I suppose I could order you to strip down so I could see you naked. Ensure what all I'm getting. But that's not why I am sponsoring you, so it's hardly necessary."

It pleased Sherlock when John grew pink-cheeked but remained silent at this.

“Well, then that’s settled. As for your other inquiries… Your sponsor’s name is Sherlock Holmes and your new address is two, two, one B Baker Street.”

This information and a cheeky click of tongue signaled the official end of their interview. Sherlock thanked Mike for his new alpha with a nod of his dark head and a cheerful, “Afternoon.”

Mike offered a two fingered wave in farewell, just before Sherlock disappeared from the room. While it certainly wasn't fusion, he was still pleased with the results of his experimental pairing. He saw good promise there.

No sooner did the door slam shut behind Sherlock, John turned back to Mike. His expression was one of stunned disbelief. Mike smiled reassuringly and nodded back. “Don’t worry, he’s really not too bad. I’m sure you’ll get used to him quickly.”

John’s expression didn’t change, but clever, Mike still discerned his alpha friend’s unspoken question.

“And, yeah. He’s always like that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks again to all who have kudosed and bookmarked this story already. And special thanks to all who wrote in on the last chapter. You guys are great.


	4. Surprise Package

After his “interview” with Sherlock Holmes, John and Mike didn’t talk much.

Mike took John on a tour of the rest of the Hospital and bought him lunch at the University cafeteria. It embarrassed John to have the man pay for his meal in the first place, particularly considering he'd already bought him coffee earlier. But he accepted because his own funds were limited and would soon belong to someone else. Also, the idea that his current balance would drop, even incrementally, felt precarious.

Though society made it almost impossible these days for an alpha to enter any omega/alpha arrangements otherwise, archaic as it was, John's instinct to prove he could provide had been triggered ever since offering his mobile. It was especially trying, given Holmes obviously came from means. John was chafing from conviction already for not having more materially to bring to his new omega (even if said omega was an annoying ass and, in reality, his owner and not a mate). 

“Sorry about the food, Mate." Mike gestured at their trays. "But it’s handy, and after I get you back to the park; I have to dash off to teach.”

“No, it’s great. Thank you.” Seeing his friend’s skeptical expression, John was quick to offer, “You’re looking at someone who’s been eating army food for years... Or my own. And the Center’s isn’t much better.

“Always the trooper, even still, eh, John?”

John dropped his eyes as Mike chuckled. The bite he’d just taken stuck in his throat as he wondered how he’d be required to “soldier on” under the ownership of his new omega.

* * *

Though this wasn’t the first time his life had been immediately altered, still it amazed John just how quickly things shifted for him within a few hours. While he’d half-feared, half-hoped, the Holmes omega would abandon his pledge of sponsorship, after lunch when Mike had returned him to Tobias at the park, the handler had already been alerted to the fact an adoption was underway.

Once back at the Center he’d been given a new schedule for the remainder of his day that included a refresher session on “alpha service and omega expectation,” an appointment for a checkout physical with one of the Center’s med techs, and an exit interview with his counselor.

“Seems like I only saw you yesterday,” John joked, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, hating as always how openly his state-appointed beta therapist eyed him.

“It _was_ yesterday, John.” Ella’s face held its usual seriousness. She cocked her head slightly to the side. “Suppose you can’t say ' _nothing ever happens'_ to you any more, now. Can you?”

A light snort escaped John at this. “No, suppose not.

“I guess, it’s a case of being careful what one wishes for.”

“Oh?” Penciled brows roses as Ella began to scribble on her notepad. “And what about this sponsor of yours? Is he what you wished for in an omega?”

 _I never wished for an omega. Not like things are anyways._ John didn’t voice this, however. “Not really an alpha’s place to make those kinds of judgments.”

Obviously this was the wrong thing to say because the blasted woman started writing again. As much as this made him want to fidget, instead John stilled himself. He made sure to meet Ella’s eyes when she looked up from her tablet. “I mean, yeah, sure. Of course.”

“You need to believe your new omega knows best, John. That’s why he chose you.”

Having known and seen too many instances of the contrary, John bit the inside of his mouth to keep himself quiet.

“Do you think you’ll have any difficulty serving him? This is a big deal, John. A good thing for you. But it will be quite a transition. I mean after all, outside your childhood, you haven’t been sponsored privately since you were in med school, right?”

Thinking about those days always made John feel slightly ill. He looked away not wanting to talk about it. As the silence stretched between them, Ella sighed.

“This is exactly the kind of thing you should write about, John. It’s important for alphas to get in touch with their emotions. The important ones, _not_ the ones that are most immediately accessible: like anger and lust.”

While her statement reflected the popular opinion on alphic emotional intelligence, Ella’s reductive assessment of his scope had John gripping the handle of his cane tighter.

 _There’s your alpha rage, then…_ John fixed his gaze on a spot just beyond the beta’s shoulder and focused on his breathing.

“You’re going to need a place to express yourself as you acclimate to your new sponsor. Speaking of which, did you add anything to your blog after our last meeting?”

“Yeah, sure.” John cleared his throat to dislodge the lie that had caught there.

“And how did it go?”

He brought his gaze back to Ella before looking off to the side. “Good. Very good.”

“You still haven’t written a word. Have you?”

“And you wrote ‘ _has trust issues_ ,’ again.” John pointed to the tablet in Ella’s lap to underscore the fact that he wasn’t the only one caught in some sort of repetitive cycle.

“You’re still reading my writing upside down?”

A bitter smile quirked the corner of John’s mouth. “You’re writing backwards today too. Just trying to throw me?”

This earned him another sigh from Ella. “Do you see what I mean, John?

 John frowned at this and his eyes went back to the shadow on the wall behind Ella. One good thing about being sponsored was he would no longer have to endure these sessions.

“Now, I know you’re likely tired of me saying this, John,” Ella hesitated only a moment seeing a frown flicker on the alpha’s face. "We both know sponsorship isn’t going to be easy for you.

"I think I am going to recommend some follow ups. It’s not just the sponsorship, John. You’ve been a soldier too, and it’s going take you a while to adjust to civilian life on top of everything else. I am also going to recommend in your file that you be able to keep your laptop and your blog.

“If your omega allows it, you should make the most of it. Like I said yesterday, writing down even the most trivial aspects of your new life will honestly help you.”

Before John could respond to this, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Ella called, signifying the end of their session without asking John if he had anything else to say.

“Alpha’s going to be late for his med check, El.” The beta orderly at the door shot John a sly wink. The fellow’s name was Smith and he was known by the Center’s alphas for his overfamiliarity and his wandering hands when it came to looking after his wards.

Today, John was having none of it. He stared back until the beta dropped his eyes. Ella nodded her head as he rose stiffly from his chair.

“Good luck, John,” she offered as he moved to follow Smith, keeping a good distance between them. “Serve your new omega like you did your country and you’ll do just fine.”

“Yes, thank you.” John nodded, though he didn’t feel thankful at all. It pained him to think about how quickly he’d been discarded by the military when he was no longer useful. He doubted Holmes’ sponsorship would prove much different.

* * *

“Don’t know what you’re looking so glum about, Alpha.” Smith had quickly regained his bearings following their earlier stare down. “Think you’d be thrilled any omega would choose you. Means you might even have the chance to break out that knot of yours again for something besides your own hand.” The orderly snickered as they made their way down the hall.

Inured to it from years of such comments, John refused to respond to this crudity. He couldn’t suppress a shiver, however, when they entered the medical wing and his nose was assaulted by the synthetic smell of pheromones from an induced rut. The scent became almost unbearable as a young alpha male, muzzled and mittened, was led past them on a leash by nurse into one of the “tryout” rooms.

It was a common practice for potential omega sponsors, sometimes betas too, to take a test run before committing to take an alpha. Infuriating as omega Holmes might have been, John was filled with a sudden sick relief that he had not deemed this necessary as a part of their interview.

Although he hadn’t experienced it here at the center, he'd had to go through this when his family lent him out to live with "foster" sponsors while he studied at Barts. And after being placed, his sponsors, the Millers, had used him multiple times as a heat-mate for their omega daughter, Meg.

She was slightly older than him, on track to becoming a lawyer and had a suppressant allergy, and her family didn’t want any inconvenient "distractions" keeping her from attaining her goals. John still clearly remembered being strapped on his back to Meg's bed for the duration of her heats, in similar gear as the man who'd just passed by, to keep him from doing the _damage_ alphas were famous for.

Those were terrible times and he’d hated them. It had been excruciating how vulnerable it made him feel; not to mention the misery of being shot full of rut enhancers and birth-control so he’d be able to adequately service Meg. But more than the these two things, being restrained like that, meant he couldn’t act on any of his better instincts to protect her or attend to her in between the waves of her heat.

John’s mind flashed back to the look of disgust in Mrs. Miller’s eyes, Meg’s beta mother. How she glared at him when she came in between her daughter’s spells to let him up just long enough to use the loo while she changed the sheets and made sure her daughter got the nourishment and hydration she needed.

No less painful than this forced false-seeding, however, was the time he'd usually had to spend locked up after, similarly restrained for two or three days following Meg’s heats. It wasn’t an uncommon practice. Most alpha’s used like he had been, unable to satisfy their instincts, usually suffered from “heat sickness,” going feral for a short time.

A glance back over his shoulder and John shivered again watching the door to the tryout room close behind the bound alpha.

“I see that jealousy in your eyes, Watson. You sly knot!” Smith grinned. He’d slipped back now beside John. His hand shot out, making a grab for John’s crotch. The smile fell from his face when he found his wrist locked in an iron grip, and heard a snarl.

“Not yours…”

The momentary fear that flickered in Smith’s eyes was quickly replaced by anger. His free hand darted into the pocket of his smock.

Though he knew he should have expected it for laying hands on one of his keepers, John still yelped in surprise at the power of it, when the shock from his collar sent a white, hot bolt down his spine and his legs went out from under him.

“Just claimed and you’re getting uppity already, Alpha?” Smith hissed into John’s ear as he sent a second shock coursing through his quaking body. “Or… don’t tell me… Wait... Little bad alpha wants to go to his new omega, pretending he’s pure and never been touched.”

If his limbs had been able to respond, John would have knocked the legs out from under the orderly in a minute, so it was probably for the best he found himself incapacitated. Far worse than the shock, however, was the pain in his leg from moving so suddenly.

“What’s all the ruckus out here?!” Dr. Patel, one of the Center's physicians, stuck his dark head out of examination room. His brows dipped seeing John on the floor and Smith standing above him.

Normally he would have put the blame for the situation on the alpha, but he’d worked with Watson since his arrival at the center. And while he’d no doubt, given the alpha’s training, he could be dangerous, Watson had always conducted himself with great care. Patel couldn’t say the same for Smith. The doctor was was well aware of the orderly’s reputation. Like most of the other Center’s staff though, he usually did nothing about it. Right now, however, the man’s shenanigans were threatening to put him behind schedule.

“Smith, how many times have I told you not tease the alphas that are newly-sponsored? You don’t help them at all, getting them riled up before they’re shipped out. Now's he's likely going to need a milking to settle down.”

Smith gave the physician his best “aw shucks” grin. “Sorry, Doc. I forget how being sponsored makes these knot-heads lose what little sense of humor they’ve got. You know I could give you a 'hand' with old Watson here if you like.”

Patel frowned at this, knowing it was inappropriate, but there were few tasks he care less for than milking the prostate of an agitated alpha. Finally he nodded, “Fine. Just get him up and in here. I haven’t got all day!”

Smith watched the doctor disappear back into the room. He rubbed his reddened wrist before his hand dipped into his pocket to hit the remote to give John one more jolt. Then he grabbed John by the back of the shirt, and set the other hand on his ass, giving his cheek a good squeeze as he pulled John upwards, urging him to stand before his limbs had even stopped twitching.

* * *

 

An hour later John stood in his tiny quarters once more, leaning against the heavy door as he heard it locked behind him. He’d been informed his dinner would be delivered on a tray and he wouldn’t be let out again until it was time for him to be collected by his sponsor. He wasn’t sure how that was going to work out just yet. Apparently Holmes’ request that his new alpha meet him, rather than come pick him up, was causing some rumblings among the administration.

What John was sure of, as he pressed his back into the door’s reassuring solidity, was how relieved he was to be back in his room, his tiny territory of the last months. And that he was not going to have to interact with anyone over the next several hours. He was only partly conscious of these thoughts as his eyes automatically swept over his room's meager contents, bed, desk, chair. He peered in through the open door to his closet-sized loo, assessing, making sure that everything was still as he’d left it.

His appointment with Dr. Patel had gone as well as he could have expected, under the circumstances. John had been secretly relieved that his new sponsor had ordered for him to receive injections for both birth-control and to resume his suppressants. The remainder of his visit, however, had been humiliating: having to be stripped down, poked, prodded, and then forced to rub himself to a knot so the doctor could declare him fit, while Smith stood there gloating.

"Don't think about the rest of it..." John ordered himself. But his ass still ached and his balls felt alarmingly empty. And he knew every time he saw Smith now, he'd feel the ghost of the man's finger crooking up inside him. He slipped out of his jacket feeling unsettled and unclean.

_Just be thankful you're leaving tomorrow,_ his rational mind told him. _Besides, it's not as if you haven't had stuff like that happen before._ Another far less reasonable part, however, growlingly reminded him he belonged to someone else now. _And how do you expect to protect this new omega if you can't even keep your own ass safe?_

 _Fuck it, I just need a shower and I'll feel better. Put the whole bloody business behind me._ John winced at his poor choice of words.

"Ever forward, then," he grimly corrected.

He was about to strip out of his clothes and start over to his quarter’s tiny shower with its tepid water and miserable pressure when his gaze fell on a small box sitting on the edge of his desk he’d somehow overlooked in his initial sweep of the room.

_Getting soft already, Watson…_

Ignoring the voice of his internal general, John stepped over to the desk. He reached his hand out to touch the box’s sleek, black skin, but his fingers stopped short when he saw the unmistakable script on the top.

_Harrods_

_What the hell is this?_

In the back of his mind John had an inkling and it filled his stomach with dread. He retreated from the box into the bathroom. After hiding in the loo until he could no longer handle his internal critics telling him just how cowardly he was being, John stepped back into his quarter’s main space.

He was wearing a bathrobe now, damp towel hung loosely around his neck, fresh-shaved and pink-scrubbed. Unfortunately, these actions had not left him feeling any more wholesome. John limped to his bed, giving his desk wide birth. After settling himself on the edge of the mattress he stared at the box on his desk as though, if he concentrated hard enough, it would disappear.

Then he dipped into the pocket of his robe and pulled out Harry’s mobile. Still learning to navigate all its bells and whistles, he flipped through its menus to find “Messages Sent.” Outside the box on his desk, if it was what he thought, this the only other clue he had at the moment. Clicking on the last text sent, John’s brow furrowed.

_If brother has green ladder arrest brother. SH_

After staring puzzledly at this for a long moment, John glanced back up. Pushing himself up stiffly, his earlier fall exacerbating his leg, he hobbled over to the desk. After several more long moments of staring, he touched the box carefully. Lips pressed into a firm line, he braced himself as he lifted the lid.

Seeing its contents, John swallowed hard.

Inside, there was a small envelope and beneath this, on black velvet, laid an alpha collar. John could almost tell, even without touching, how supple the leather was. As he reached for it with his left hand his fingers began to tremble, so he fisted them and stretched out his right instead.

In the dimness of his quarters the color looked almost black, but upon closer inspection, John saw it was actually a deep-brown, warmer, far less stark. The strip was thin, way thinner than anything he’d ever worn when he was previously collared and the hide felt like butter in his fingers. Nothing at all like the stiff, heavy Center’s collar he wore that suddenly seemed even more choking.

A soft whistle escaped him as he studied at the collar’s clasp. He’d read about these but hadn’t ever seen one before. It was state of the art, fit with micro-sensors. A catch like that, once fastened around a living neck, would only release with the press of an authorized fingerprint. Given this, John harbored no doubts that the rest of the collar was set to record its wearer’s bio-rhythms, likely instantly accessible by mobile for the alpha’s owner and apt to alert both owner and authorities if removed in anyway other than by the prescribe print.

John set the collar back in its box and took out the small envelope, wondering as he did, how many months... Years… of his military alpha wages it would have taken for him to purchase a collar like this. He flipped the envelope’s flap open and slid silky vellum out from inside it.

_Again,_

_221 B Baker St._

_7:00 pm tomorrow_

_Put on if convenient._

_If not convenient, put on anyways._

_SH_

Still holding the card, John pulled out his desk chair and sat down heavily.

He must have read it a dozen times at least before setting it aside. Mind and body swirling with so many questions now, so many mixed emotion stirred by his whole day, by this in particular, John opened his desk and pulled out his army-issued laptop.

The glow of the screen illuminated his room as John pulled up his blog. It still stared blankly back at him, taunting: months since it had been assigned and not a single entry yet. His fingers hovered above the keys. Then his blue gaze flickered over to the open box, the creamy parchment sitting beside it.

_Bugger…_

John clicked out of his blog and over to “Quest.” He typed in the name “Sherlock Holmes” and barely hesitated before he pressed “enter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So next chapter John arrives at 221B and the real fun begins.
> 
> Than you again to everyone who's taken the time to offer their thoughts. It's very much appreciated. Like, seriously, you don't even know...


	5. Into the Lion's Den

“Can’t you do something about that, Mate? Your bloody alpha’s stinking up my taxi!”

“Relax, Watty boy! So nervous.”

John kept his eyes focused on the road ahead. “Maybe if you moved your hand… Sir.” He gritted the words out, as he focused on his breathing.

While he no longer wore the Center’s shock collar, the thin band marking him Sherlock Holmes’ property now affixed around his neck, he was still at Smith’s mercy. And at any time, before he made it to two, two, one, B Baker St, the orderly had the power to turn them around and squire him back to the Center. All Smith had to do was cite him for something as simple as "poor behavior."

Sure, he’d be Holmes’ eventually, but before this he’d be locked up again, forced to endure more milkings and sessions with Ella, while he was re-evaluated and new paperwork cleared. And not only would that give Smith more access to him, but it was no way to start off with a new omega.

“Move my hand? Oh… You mean like this?” Smith slid his hand higher up John’s leg. His palm slipped around cupping the inside of his thigh, the side  pressed against John’s testicles.

_Of all the staff for the Center to choose to deliver me._

The muscles in John’s jaw clenched and his teeth audibly clacked. He fought the urge to throw his elbow up and crush Smith’s trachea.

_I am Captain John Watson, I am a doctor, I am meters from my sponsor. I will not fuck this up._

_“_ Perfect, Sir.”

Though it was hard to untangle the words from John’s sarcastic growl, Smith’s smirky grin only widened.

“I thought so.”

“You know, Alpha, I’m sorry I didn’t realize what fun you were earlier. We could have had a riot you and I.” Smith gave John’s thigh a fresh squeeze. “But we can pick this up when your omega returns you. Yeah?

“What do you think? I give you two weeks. Tops.”

While John remained silent, his fury at Smith, as well as his fear the handler’s words were likely prophetic, caused his scent to spike again.

“Okay! Out!” The omega cab driver pulled over to the curb. “Have you never heard of suppressants? Bugger the fare! You and your reeking alpha can walk the last few blocks. I’m going to have fumigate before I can take another passenger.”

Already hyper-conscious of his scent, John’s cheeks blushed hotter. He had been dosed yesterday, but he'd been drawing close to a rut and the suppressants just hadn’t caught up yet.

If it wasn’t for his leg, he would have leapt out of the cab the instant it pulled over. As it was, he got out as quickly as possible. Smith emerged after and stood on the pavement glaring at him as he grabbed his army rucksack from the taxi’s boot.

John slipped the straps over his shoulders. With his leg, managing the pack wasn’t easy, but he wasn’t about to complain. At least walking there would be less chance of Smith molesting him. And hopefully, the fresh air would temper his scent too. The last thing he wanted was to show up at his sponsors’ emanating anger and distress.

“All right, chin up!”

_So much for smelling any more peaceful._

“Seriously?” John cocked his head to the side, feeling much less vulnerable out in the open. “Between the pack and my leg, you honestly think I’m going to run?”

“You run that mouth well enough, Alpha,” Smith snapped, incensed by both having to walk and John dropping the “Sir” from his speech. “You know Center rules. If we’re walking out in public you need to be leashed.”

It would be so easy to grab the hand holding the lead and break everyone of Smith’s fingers. _Just a few more blocks,_ John told himself. He pulled the neck of his jumper down to reveal his collar and allowed Smith to snap the leash to it.

“Fancy boy you are now, eh?” Smith sneered at the expensive leather. “Better have that new omega of yours take you to the shop with him for a better fitting. That collar’s too loose and low as it’s hanging, it’s barely visible. Don’t want that now do we?”

Silence seemed his best tack so John remained quiet.

“I asked you a question, Alpha!” Smith spat out the word “alpha” as though it tasted vile.

“No, Sir.” John kept his eyes averted, not only to placate Smith but also so as not to see the faces of the pedestrians milling around them. It was humiliating being dressed down in public.

Finally they started moving again. John was grateful for this. He was also surprised with how easy it was to keep up. Oddly enough, he realized that the moment his pack had settled on his shoulders the ache in his leg began to abate. Leaning far less heavily on his cane than usual, he kept stride with the orderly.

His heart pounded less with exertion and more with apprehensive relief as they came down the walk and the numbers indicated they were mere steps away from his new home. Drawing up to the weathered, black door of the flat, just as Smith reached for the knocker, a cab pulled up to the curb. John recognized the lanky figure emerging immediately as his sponsor.

He watched the omega pass the driver a handful of bills and motion for the cab to wait.

“Hello.”

Though Sherlock’s eyes were on John, Smith immediately took the greeting as meant for him.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes. Looks like perfect timing. Wouldn’t have wanted to leave your new alpha tied up outside on your doorstep. Not that I rightly could.”

The instant Sherlock had stepped from the cab he’d caught John’s distressed scent and it only heightened his own not inconsiderable anxiety. He stared at the two men on his stoop for a long moment before turning his attention back to John.

“Who is this and why is he here? You navigated Afghanistan, John, surely you could have made here on your own?”

“Adam Smith, at your service Mr. Holmes. Center’s regulations say its alphas have to be formally transferred by a Center employee.” Smith offered his hand along with a flirtatious grin.

Sherlock accepted neither, his cool, gray eyes flitted back and forth between the orderly and John. He noted that his new alpha kept his gaze lowered; hectic patches of pink visible on his cheeks. John stood still, his stance rigid, despite the weight of the pack on his back. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“Right then.” Once Smith realized Sherlock wasn’t going to be friendly he dropped his hand and pulled out his mobile from the Center. “Just swipe your ID card here and he’s all yours."

As he complied, Sherlock kept his eyes on Smith. “You can take that leash off him.”

“You sure, Mr. Holmes?” Smith tried once more, obviously taken by the handsome omega. “I’d be happy to escort him in for you. Make sure he doesn’t try and make a break for it.”

“With a bad leg and a thirty kilo pack?” Sherlock stared at Smith, his gaze unblinking. “How about I walk you to your cab instead?”

“John, stay there.”

Smiling at his victory, Smith made a show of ambling over to the cab, Sherlock beside him while John stayed put.

“Don’t know what you’re doing with a broken down old knot like that, but if you’d ever like…”

Before he finished, Sherlock cut Smith off as he opened the door to the cab. “You know, if your brother ever figures out what you’re doing to his son; he’s going to kill you. Literally. Even if his boy’s an alpha.”

The smile fell from Smith’s face and suddenly lost all color. “What?”

“I doubt you really need me to repeat what I just said. Good bye, Mr. Smith.”

A light press to Smith’s shoulder and the stunned man all but fell into the cab. Sherlock swung the door to the backseat closed. He leaned in through the open passenger window and told the cabbie, “Central London Alpha Control Center. Unless he directs you otherwise.”

As the taxi pulled away, Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a quick text.

_CLACC employee Adam Smith_

_30-single-beta-pedophile-prefers alphas_

_Abusing younger brother’s alpha child_

_Video evidence will be in an alley bin outside his flat within the hour_

_Likely misconduct at CLACC with adult wards as well_

_SH_

While the Holmes omega texted, John, as directed, remained where he was. He hadn’t been able to hear what his new sponsor had said to Smith, but it had obviously shaken the orderly. Despite the fact he wished he’d been the one to make Smith pull such a face, after the hell man had put him through, John would have been lying if he said he didn’t find this pleasing.

Shaking himself from these thoughts, he pulled himself to attention as his sponsor approached him again. The omega looked at him expectantly. Responding to the cue, John cleared his throat. Not sure of what title he’d be required to use, he stammered through the list, watching the omega’s response for indication of the right one.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes… Sir…” he was about to try out “omega” next, “master” as a last resort. He was more than a little stunned when his new sponsor extended a hand to him.

“Sherlock, please.”

John took the offered hand cautiously. “Er… Yes… Sherlock…” He offered the traditional words alphas were taught for this moment. “Thank you for opening your home to me. I will do my best to merit it. To serve, protect, and provide, however you deem fit.”

While he was nervous about these three duties, looking at the building where he’d now reside, John’s stomach clenched at the last. His new collar, this flat. His pension would be little provision stacked against these things. And even if Sherlock let him get a job… Supposing that someone would even hire him…

Sherlock blinked at the ridiculous words his new alpha had just spouted. Though peppered with earnestness they sounded rote. He imagined it must be one of those old alpha/omega conventions: most of which he’d deleted ages ago never thinking he’d be in the situation to use them. So, rather than accept John’s thanks or affirm his duties as was customary, he merely gave a flip of one long-fingered hand. “The flat’s not much, but I find it comfortable.”

Another wave of unease rolled off John and Sherlock wrinkled his nose He knew the alpha’s reinstated suppressants likely hadn’t taken full hold again yet. He hoped that they would soon, especially if John was going to continue to be so emotive. It wasn’t he found the alpha’s distress scent offensive, really quite the opposite, but Sherlock could feel his own body reacting and it was annoying.

When Sherlock didn’t respond with the usual answer and reaffirm his “generous” omegan acceptance of him and of John’s offered service, the alpha didn’t want to admit how it stung, or how hard-pressed he was not to look wounded. John was baffled too by the contradiction: first the offer of his sponsor’s hand and the informal address, so quickly followed by this rejection. Sherlock’s downplay of his den also threw him. Nest status was notoriously important among omegas.

Perhaps his sponsor wanted affirmation?

John did his best to discreetly sniff. There was something there, but Sherlock’s suppressed scent made it difficult to discern his mood.

“Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive,” John offered cautiously.

Sherlock surprised him again both with his openness and his informality. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor.

“A few years back, her alpha bond-mate got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

There was so much in these short sentences John didn’t know how to respond. A hope sparked in his chest that perhaps Sherlock’s odd behavior was because he was some sort of alpha advocate.

“Sorry,” It was risky talking when he hadn’t plainly been addressed, but John needed to locate his footing here as quickly as possible. “You stopped her bond-mate being executed?”

“Oh, no. I ensured it.”

This answer was deeply unnerving, but not as much as the tight smile that accompanied it. _So, definitely not an advocate then_. John shifted his pack uncomfortably, watching Sherlock rap the door’s brass knocker. An older omega woman opened it a moment later.

“Sherlock, you were out all night.” Her voice was warm and mildly scolding. “And with your new alpha coming in, of all things!”

This “new alpha” was entirely the reason Sherlock had stayed away from home. He’d been far too nervous after he’d filed the papers to spend his last unencumbered night shut up in his flat. He didn’t say anything of the sort, however. Instead, he ignored the false reprimand and accepted a light hug and familial scenting.

“Forgot my key again.”

“Oh, Sherlock…” the older omega tutted. Her eyes widened when Sherlock stepped back to reveal John. John kept a respectful distance watching the woman’s nostrils flare as she took him in from the door.

“Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson.”

Again, John was stunned by his sponsor’s behavior. No one had called him “doctor” since he’d been discharged and such titles weren’t usually used in alpha introduction. He set this aside for the moment wondering more if the heavy scent of his recent emotions would put Sherlock’s landlady off. Especially if she’d had a bad alpha in her past.

John found himself further dislocated when after a few discreet sniffs, Mrs. Hudson’s face broke into a warm smile, her eyes radiating something remarkably akin to sympathy.

“Hello, Doctor Watson.”

Moved by her address, John dipped his head in submission. “How do you do, Ma’am.”

Mrs. Hudson’s hands gave an excited flutter in response. “Come in.”

Instincts immediately reading Mrs. Hudson as “den mother, an elevated position in society and familial structure, something wound tight inside John eased with her acceptance. “Thank you.”

Sherlock glanced back and forth between them, obviously satisfied. “Shall we?”

Nodding in affirmation, Mrs. Hudson stepped aside allowing both them entry.

Watching his sponsor fly up the stairs, John was caught by Sherlock’s grace. A small wave of envy passed over him too at how easily the omega moved. He eyed the stairs with a sigh of weary trepidation: the moment he’d crossed over the entry, the ache in his leg had become immediately acute again.

With the added burden of his pack, it took John a bit to reach the landing. The moment he did, Sherlock opened the door to the flat and stepped in. John had to admit that even suppressed, the omega’s concentrated den-scent beckoned enticingly. Still, he waited in the door frame working hard not to noticeably sniff. Again there was no move by his sponsor, no traditional granting of permission to enter his nest.

After hesitating, John warily stepped in.

When this brought about no reprimand he turned his eyes to the flat, assessing the terrain. Through a cracked door, John could see a bedroom. The open archway to the kitchen and front room made things easily defensible. He wasn’t ready to put his taxed leg to more stairs and see what the upper part of the flat held yet and he was leery of taking more liberties. But the main room was wonderfully large and would have likely looked larger still, if it hadn’t been for all the clutter.

He slipped his pack down off his shoulders and leaned it against the wall. “This is very nice. Very nice indeed.”

“Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely.” Sherlock was shocked by the way his chest automatically puffed at the alpha’s pleased tone.

“Obviously it will be even better once you get fully moved in. Things sorted and the rubbish cleaned out.” John realized he’d gone into mobilization mode, speaking as he did. Seeing the flat, with his military training it was a natural response. He also realized this was a mistake when his sponsor said simultaneously, “Yes, I’ve been quite happy here these last six months.”

The notion that Sherlock had been residing in this chaos for half a year, dealt rather a blow to both John’s alpha and army sensibilities.

“Oh… So this is all...”

While he tried to keep an open mind, John had to admit he’d absorbed cultural stereotypes about omegas, just as they did alphas. While omegas were well-known to be acquisitive, they were also typified as being obsessed with order and appearance.

… _and throw pillows._

But John was quickly learning Sherlock was far from a “typical” omega. He stopped himself before he said anything else out of line.

Sherlock had immediately deduced John’s reaction and while he usually had no problems throwing off the shackles of convention, he was suddenly aware of how his nest might look to an outsider… An alpha outsider at that.

He was filled with a strange sense of self-consciousness he was quite unused to. “Well… Obviously I can, um… Straighten things up a bit.

If it wasn’t so disconcerting, Sherlock would have thought it interesting grounds for an experiment. He felt himself move across the room automatically and affect the motions of tidying. He watched his hands move almost as if they had their own mind, throwing a couple of old files into a box and then picking up a number of unopened envelopes.

 _Bills, most likely…_ _Boring. Wait… What the hell am I doing?_

Maddened by such an obvious display of his omega instincts, Sherlock stepped over the mantel of the flat’s fireplace and set the post there. As if to send a message to his omegan psyche, he picked up a pocketknife from where it sat atop a nearby box and drove this through the heart of the letters and into the aged wood beneath them with an inordinate amount of force.

From where he’d continued to stand, John warily watched this little scenario play out. It was obvious he’d upset Sherlock. It was perplexing, however, that his new sponsor seemed intent on taking out his ire on some innocent correspondence, rather than his offending alpha. Then his gaze shifted.

“We really need to do something about that, John. Otherwise, I’m not to be able to concentrate around you at all. ”

John started at Sherlock’s voice. He looked over to see the omega rummaging through a box, emerging with what he quickly identified as an aerosol can of scent neutralizer.

Such products were legal nowdays. Unless an alpha was caught using such to try and pass as another dynamic anyways. Realizing that what he’d noticed had caused his scent to spike again, John remained still, cheeks blushing furiously as he allowed Sherlock to spray him.

When his sponsor seemed satisfied, John couldn’t help but point out the cause of his flare. He was about to gesture at the object with his cane, but then thought the better of it. Rather than engage in an action that could be read in any way as aggressive, he nodded over to the mantel.

“That’s a skull. A real human skull… Not a replica.”

“Old Alpha of mine.” Sherlock offered this offhand, his voice light.

Seeing the way John’s face blanched at these words, he quickly corrected. ”Well, when I say ‘of mine,’ I mean ...”

Realizing that the attending story likely would only exacerbate John’s unease, he let his words trail off, and sent another jet of neutralizing spray in his new alpha’s direction.

Thankfully Mrs. Hudson took this moment to re-join them.

An old school omega, she reveled in her nurturing instincts. The moment she stepped into the flat she immediately began to unapologetically tidy, picking up a dirty cup and saucer from the top of a box.

So far, outside John’s unfortunate “mishandling” by Smith, things had been going, though not at all well, still better than Sherlock had hoped. And now, with the soothe of his adopted den mother present, he realized at last, he felt comfortable enough to remove his weighted scarf and the heavy comfort of his great-coat.

Or at least, he had been feeling more comfortable until Mrs. Hudson suddenly stopped on her way to the kitchen to scent the air.

“Oh, now. Sherlock, why did you have to go and spray that awful stuff about? Your doctor’s quite nice. Nothing better to keep omega health up than a good strong dose of alpha. And you’ve been needing that.”

If it were anyone else but Mrs. Hudson to say such a thing, there would have soon been a second skull keeping company on the mantle. Instead, Sherlock dropped his gaze and moved across the room so that John wouldn’t see the sudden color that had crept into his cheeks. What embarrassed him more than his landlady’s words, however, was realizing there was some truth in her assertion. A part of him had actually felt an odd twinge of loss when John’s scent had dissipated.

Mrs. Hudson disregarded Sherlock’s own now lightly uncomfortable scent, and focused her attentions on her newest tenant.

“So what do you think of your Sherlock, then, Doctor Watson? You know there’s another bedroom upstairs until you boys sort yourselves out… Not that you’ll be needing two bedrooms for long, I imagine: you young ones are so impatient these days.

 _Your Sherlock?_ John’s mouth fell open, unsure of what to say in response.

“Still, I know too how you alphas need a bit of your own space sometimes. Mine used to spend hours in his _alpha cave_.”

John waited for his new sponsor to jump in and clarify their status. He was still unsure of what he’d really been “adopted” for exactly. When some time passed without Sherlock offering even a single word, he found his voice at last.

“Um… right… I’m sorry, Ma’am, but I don’t think…

Mistaking John’s stuttering for modesty, Mrs. Hudson smiled encouragingly at him.

“Not like my day, when alpha’s were still determined to make declarations, regardless of their station… But there’s no need for you to be shy, Doctor. I can see how you two fit.”

John’s eyes widened at this.

“Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here.” Mrs. Hudson dropped her voice to a conspiratorial volume. “I know it’s fallen from fashion, but Mrs. Turner, next door… Her’s bonded three days after Mr. Jamison brought his Mr. Spencer home from the Center.”

John eyes quickly darted across the room to his new sponsor at this talk of “bonding,” expecting the omega to vehemently deny he had any such intentions. But Sherlock was messing about with the contents of one of his many boxes and seemed determined to ignore them.

Glowing now, having taken both men’s silence as affirmation, Mrs. Hudson moved into the kitchen, cup and saucer in hand.

“Oh, Sherlock. The mess you’ve made.”

Hearing this exclamation, John turned away from his still seemingly indifferent sponsor to see Mrs. Hudson beginning to putter around the kitchen, moving carefully around the dining table. Its surface held an assortment of things that made it look not too unlike one of the stations in Stamford’s lab at Barts.

That was just the tip of the kitchen’s chaos.

It was all a lot to take in, and after Sherlock’s disclosure regarding his alpha skull, John’s leg ached more furiously now than it had in days. Deciding that this might be a case where it was better to ask for forgiveness, rather than permission; unless the skull on the mantle was there because of some unfortunate "sitting" incident. Still, he moved over to over to one of the rooms two armchairs.

Seeing a tatty throw pillow on the seat should have cheered him a bit, or at least offered John some mild encouragement, validating the actual "omega-ness" of his sponsor. He picked the cushion up, plumped it a bit, and then sat down heavily. He made sure to make enough noise he expected at least some kind of response, but again none came.

John was at a loss with what it was he should be doing. Sherlock should have given him at least some kind of direction by now, started laying down the house rules. Or at least, dumped his pack out on the floor to determine what he was permitted to keep.

Mind racing back to what he’d researched about his sponsor; he remembered Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be some kind of genius. Perhaps this was the cause for all this unusual behavior?

_Or maybe he’s not a genius at all and Mike set me up with an omega who’s just mental._ Having seen Sherlock's site, it wasn't the first time this thought had occurred to him. 

Across the room, Sherlock was struggling, unable to keep from flitting from box to box, doing little tidying tasks he normally couldn’t be bothered with.

“I looked you up on the internet last night.”

After being pointedly ignored for several minutes, these softly spoken words pulled steel-gray eyes to John in an instant.

While Sherlock imagined John had a certain mental curiosity, he was surprised by the alpha’s initiative… and slightly pleased too, though he’d never admit it. He made sure to keep his voice bland.

“Did you find anything interesting?”

“Found your website… _The…_ uh, _Science of Deduction_.”

“What did you think?”

It was perhaps the most engaged John had seen his sponsor. The look of expectation on Sherlock’s face made something inside him twist, but he’d always tried to be as honest as possible. Rather than say it supported his increasingly distressing conviction that he was now in the custody of an off-balance omega, instead he offered.

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie… And an airline pilot by her left thumb?”

Hearing the disbelief in John’s voice, Sherlock found himself feeling remarkably disappointed. So much so, he even allowed the emotion to flicker over his face. It was stupid of course: it wasn’t like he needed alphic approval.

He kept his tone crisp, “Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

“How?”

Seeing the curious expression on the alpha’s face, not only alleviated his pique but pleased Sherlock far more than he knew it ought to. So rather than answer, he looked away.

Before John could ask again, Mrs. Hudson emerged out of the kitchen, carrying a stack of newspapers to take to the recycling. She was halfway across the room when her eyes fell on the pile’s top page.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street. Three… Exactly the same.”

At the sound of a particular car's engine pulling up outside the flat, Sherlock moved over to one of the living room’s windows.

“Four.”

He watched a familiar figure exit the vehicle. Seeing the flashing lights on the car’s roof and realizing what such a visit meant, sent an excited shiver coursing down his spine.

“There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

“A fourth?”

Hardly a moment passed before there was the clop of heavy feet pounding up the stairs. A silver-haired alpha appeared at Sherlock’s open door. Dark eyes darted over to John and immediately dismissed him, but when they alit on Mrs. Hudson, the alpha dipped his head.

“Excuse me, Ma’am you left your front door open.”

“Did I?”

“Oh, forget about the door, Sergeant. Where?” Sherlock’s eyes glittered with anticipation.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

The alpha nodded his head. “You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yes...” There was a sudden breathless quality to Sherlock’s voice.

John fidgeted in his chair, not even half an hour with Sherlock and already he felt irritated by this other alpha in his sponsor’s home. He was pressed to rise and declare as much. Likely would have succumbed too, were it not for the very visible collar around the other alpha’s neck, marking him as belonging to the Yard.

It continued to trigger John mightily, however, that, thanks to Sherlock spraying him, the other alpha continued on, not seeming to register him at all.

“This one left a note. Will you come?”

“Did DI Donovan ask for me, Lestrade?”

“What do you think?” was the snorted reply.

Sherlock frowned at this. “Who’s on forensics?”

“It’s Anderson.”

The frown on Sherlock’s face deepened. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

Lestrade sighed. “Alpha or not, you know he won’t be your assistant. And since you’re not technically on the force, he can’t really be disciplined for failure to support.”

“Well, I need an assistant!”

At the huff in Sherlock’s voice, John noticed how the alpha, Sergeant Lestrade, tensed. It was stunning how the rugged looking officer's voice took on a tone only just shy of pleading.

“Will you come?”

“Not in a police car. But I’ll be right behind.”

Relief washed over Lestrade’s features and the weighted scent of his suppressed worry lifted. “Thank you.”

The policeman glanced over to Mrs. Hudson and deferentially dipped his head again. “Good day, Ma’am.” Then is an instant he was tearing out of the flat at a gallop.

Sherlock remained perfectly still, but even from where he sat, John could almost hear the happy vibrations humming the omega's lean frame. His nose twitched as the scent of a joyous Sherlock flooded the flat.

Christ, it was a brilliant smell. Intoxicating, really.

John’s mind was suddenly filled with a slew of filthy images, and he was mortified by the heat that pooled in his groin. Thank god, Sherlock had sprayed him, or his arousal would have been immediately obvious. John squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

He started when as soon as, downstairs, the door to the street slammed shut, Sherlock sprang into motion like a marionette whose strings had just been jerked. The omega began jumping about, hands clenched in a little fist pumping dance.

“Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note!” Sherlock twirled about like a pup. “Oh, it’s Christmas!”

Racing to where he’d left them, Sherlock picked up his scarf and coat. As he pulled himself into these he darted into kitchen.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.”

“I’m your landlady, Dear, not your housekeeper. And you have your doctor now to tend you.” Even as she scolded, Mrs. Hudson’s expression was one of pleased amusement.

“Something cold will do.” Sherlock carried on as if he hadn’t heard her looking for his leather carrier, the one that held his magnifying glass and his tweezers. “John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!”

John’s eyes were wide as he watched Sherlock dart out the door, leaving him on his own, unattended in the flat, unrestrained and with no rules or tasks lain out. He leaned back into the chair with an exasperated huff. Then twisted a bit to pull the cushion out from behind him. Holding the small pillow in his hands John eyed it, his expression curious and then resigned.

That settles it then.

Unconsciously his mind tripped back to the commitment oath that should have ended his first day with his new sponsor

_I, alpha, John Watson belong now, as long as he’ll have me, to omega, Sherlock Holmes._

John set the cushion aside, atop a small table beside him, its surface cluttered already. He pressed his back into the chair and rubbed his ever-aching thigh.

_Sherlock Holmes…_

_Well off… Handsome… Brilliant smelling…_

_And clearly insane._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the new chapter, a little pre-weekend treat. Many thanks to all of you who commented; sorry it took me so long to reply. And my appreciation for the kudos as well. I never expected this story to be so popular.


	6. Unleashed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is a bit shorter than the last few. I hadn't intended to update so quickly but I had chapters started for all my other stories and a virus took my regular laptop down on Friday. The laptop I am writing on now doesn't have "WORD" and I had to do this all in a GOOGLE doc, which was slightly maddening. But I needed to write and I was too pissed off to try and re-write any of my lost 18,000 words.

“Look at him, dashing about!” Mrs. Hudson set the newspapers she'd been carrying down atop a box next to John's chair.

Broken from his thoughts by the sound of her voice, John looked up to see the older omega standing beside him and realized he’d not been abandoned quite so completely.

“My bonded was just the same.” Mrs. Hudson gave him a knowing nod. “But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell.”

To keep from snapping out at this, John dropped his gaze and bit his tongue. These repeated insinuations that he and his new sponsor were a bonding couple rubbed wrong against his already abraded nerves. Especially after the way he’d just been so clearly left.

Even more vexing, however, was the notion that he’d be content with being static. He’d been out and active in the world his whole life. At least as much as was afforded to him. And he'd certainly never wanted to be a "house-alpha." But shifting his eyes now from the cane in his hand to the apartment’s surrounding disarray, John didn’t need the “science of deduction” to surmise this was the most likely the reason Sherlock had sponsored him. The reality of it finally hit him like the blow of a hammer. His gut twisted uncomfortably and the flat suddenly became claustrophobic.

 **"** Now about that tea Sherlock mentioned.”

Blue eyes blinked up at Mrs. Hudson. “Oh... Yes, Ma'am.” She was now the present omega and he should be deferring to her in Sherlock’s absence.

“It might take me a moment to get familiar with the kitchen..." John started to rise. It would be good to serve Mrs. Hudson: he needed to do something to distract him from the slow panic filling him.

"Oh, no, Dear." Mrs. Hudson clucked. "You misunderstood me. I’ll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg."

Watching her head towards the kitchen John's chest became so tight he could hardly draw a breath: his new omega sponsor had gone out to run around a crime scene filled with alpha officers, and now, he was apparently so pathetic, he wasn't even deemed fit to make tea.

It was just too much.

The stress of these last days, of feeling physically and financially compromised, the troubles with Smith, this new sponsor situation, of being off suppressants and pushed just shy of a rut; it all came crashing down, toppling John over the edge. He directed all his pent up emotion into three words that addressed none of these things, but that also encompassed them completely.

"Damn my leg!"

It had been months since John had used his alpha voice. It filled the room and echoed off the walls. Mrs, Hudson jumped and then froze in her tracks. As soon as the words left his mouth, John felt himself pale. Seeing the stiffness in the older omega's spine filled him with horror.

"Sorry," his voice was soft and frantic now. John lowered his head and looked away as Mrs. Hudson turned back to him. "I’m so, so sorry."

The conditioned urge to get up, go kneel before 221 B's den mother, and beg her forgiveness warred inside John with his still angry alpha. In the end, he didn't rise. Not out of rebellion but because he was too fearful that he might frighten the older omega even more if he moved.

He turned his fury and disgust at his lapse on himself, dealing a stinging blow to his already aching leg with his cane. "It’s just sometimes this bloody thing..." Once again, this statement went well beyond addressing his leg and John was terribly embarrrassed when the words came out sounding far more broken he intended.

Mrs. Hudson, however, was no shrinking violet and had experienced more than her fair share of exposure to alpha emotions during her life. Plus, while he didn't have that alphic voice thing going for him, Sherlock had been her tenant for six months now, so moods were no stranger to her.

Having just been placed, Mrs. Hudson knew too that Sherlock's new alpha was likely experiencing a bit of "shelter shock." And her heart was tugged, seeing how distraught he seemed about losing his temper, so she kept her voice mild and commiserating.

"I understand, Dear; I’ve got a hip."

John had fully expected Mrs. Hudson to immediately call alpha control and have him hauled away. He lifted his head to stare at her, blown away by this response. His eyes widened further when she smiled at him, and he realized she smelled concerned rather than wary.

"Shall I make that tea for you now?”

Incredibly humbled by such grace, following his own abominable behavior, .John bowed his head. He replied softly, "Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you, Ma'am."

"Rest easy. It's just this once, Doctor." Mrs. Hudson's tone was warm. "After all, I’m not your housekeeper and you'll have plenty off chances to make tea in the future."

When he didn't hear her step away, John chanced a glance over. Mrs. Hudson stood in the archway to the kitchen. Her expression expectant. She tipped her head slightly when he remained silent, waiting.

"Sorry?..." John wasn't sure what she wanted from him, but there was obviously something.

"Aren't you going to ask me for some biscuits?"

John's forehead furrowed at this. He was hardly in a place for asking for anything but more forgiveness. However, it seemed that this request for biscuits was what Mrs. Hudson desired. It struck him that this could  be a trap of some kind. Still, he ventured cautiously, "May I have a couple of biscuits too, please, Ma'am? If you’ve got ’em."

"Yes, Dear, of course." The expression on Mrs. Hudson's face became triumphant. "Just remember: _not your housekeeper_!" She chirped as she moved into the kitchen to fill the kettle, leaving John in the front room, alone, and completely at a loss.

_I think Sherlock's landlady might be just as mental as he is…_

Even so, John was immensely relieved. Unless she decided to poison it, tea was hardly the punishment he expected to receive for using his alpha voice. Outside the army, most every other place he'd lived would have beaten him severely for such an outburst. Memories of past instances filled his mind- many where he'd been punished for far less than what he'd just done.

John shook his head trying to drive these unwanted recollections away before their unbalancing effect got him in more trouble. Seeking a diversion, his eyes fell on the stack of newspapers Mrs. Hudson had abandoned. The top's frontpage held an article on one of the suicides that had been mentioned. There was an accompanying picture of the victim. Another below of an omega, DI Donovan, whose name John recalled from Sherlock's conversation.

Standing behind the DI in the photo, though he looked a little fuzzy, was the alpha officer who just been in the flat. John cleared his throat to rid it of the growl that started to stir there.

* * *

Sherlock had been out on the landing when he'd heard John's alpha exclamation. Just like Mrs. Hudson, the mere tone of it had immediately arrested him.

Hearing that strength, that volume, a very sudden and clear picture of his new alpha flashed through Sherlock's mind. It was a vision of John on the battlefield, elbows deep in blood, and barking orders as chaos boomed around him.

Thinking of John like that... Well, it was certainly a far cry from the beaten down man he'd left sitting in his front room. A shiver thrilled down Sherlock's spine, just the same as he got whenever a particularly interesting case popped up. Seized with a sense of intrigue, while rationalizing it was because Anderson wouldn't work with him, Sherlock stepped back into his flat.

John was still seated in the chair as he’d left him, reading. He noted the look of concentration on the alpha's face as he poured over the paper, processing the information. Though he wasn't necessarily handsome in the "conventional" alpha sense, Sherlock realized that his new sponsee’s appearance was not without appeal.

Annoyed with this observation, he deleted it, intent on dealing with the more pressing matters at hand.

"You’re a doctor."

Having thought he'd gone already, John looked up, startled to hear his sponsor's voice. Sherlock stood in the open doorway. He leaned casually against the doorframe looking far less like a crazy person now that he wasn't leaping about and more like some kind of omega model.

"In fact, you’re an Army doctor."

Inwardly John cringed, figuring Sherlock must have heard him shout and come back to check on Mrs. Hudson. A sudden fear seized him that by losing control he'd failed already and his sponsor had returned to send him back. That, or Sherlock would now punish him.

He didn't mind the thought of punishment as much, John knew he merited some kind of correction. That Sherlock, who had introduced him to Mrs. Hudson as a doctor, was stating these things now, made him wonder if the omega was doing so because he intended to medicalize his punishment for greater impact.

The thought made John queasy.

Regardless, after setting the paper down, he squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. He braced himself to take either fate as he answered the unasked question held in Sherlock's statements.

"Yes."

Sherlock noted immediately the effect his words had on the alpha. Gone was the defeated slump; John's posture had become military once more. He moved in closer and watched as the alpha struggled for a moment to get his feet under himself, rising to stand to attention in his presence. Something in this action filled Sherlock's chest with an unfamiliar warmth.

"This doctor thing, then. Were you any good at it?"

The way the question was asked was challenging and John got the sense this wasn't about determining some kind of creative punishment at all.

He knew that he should defer his expertise. Downplay his skill. This would have been the acceptable omegan thing to do. But then he wasn't an omega, and he'd be damned if he wasn't proud of what he'd done in his field when he was able to.

It was interesting, watching John process, the obvious war within him as how to answer such a simple question. Sherlock noted how the alpha shuffled his weight uncomfortably and his grip tightened around the head of his cane. But then he straightened and looked him in the eye.

John’s voice was strong and held no doubt or hesitation. "I was… _am_ very good."

A smile twitched the corners of Sherlock’s mouth, both surprised and pleased with this answer.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then... Violent deaths."

There was some hint of possibility in these words and while John knew it was far from appropriate, he felt a surge of excitement. He tried to tamp this down as he hummed his affirmation.

"Mmm, yes."

This response only made the gleam in his sponsor's eyes glow brighter. It was like the glint of a highly polished blade caught by the light.

"Saw a bit of trouble too then, I bet."

The omega's tone was almost mischievous. _Was this a trick question?_ There was really only one way John could answer without putting himself in a bad light. He made sure to keep his voice soft and hoped he sounded remorseful enough.

“Of course. It was war, after all. So, yes.

Schooling his face to hold the appropriate expression was much harder, however.

"Experienced enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

Though he didn't show  it, Sherlock was amused at what a bad liar his new alpha was. It was surprising and, while this was never a sentiment he normally ever used, the word “sweet” popped into his mind. He found he could hardly imagine not asking his next question: those blue eyes regarding him with such cautious hope.

“Would you like to see some more?”

It took John a few moments to realize he’d heard correctly. For the first time in weeks he felt as though he could pull a true breath.  

“Oh God, yes.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. John worried he sounded entirely too eager, but the grin that quirked the corners of Sherlock’s mouth reassured him.

“Good!” Sherlock spun on his heels to head out, only to stop within a few steps. Limping after, John halted just in time to keep from running into him.

“Damn, I forgot about Donovan. Hold on!”

John stood still while Sherlock flew over to his boxes to retrieve the can of scent neutralizer. He remained unmoving while Sherlock sprayed him all over again.

“Were they using this on you before, at the Center?"

Seeing John’s cheeks heat at this question while the blond head shook in the negative Sherlock snorted, forgetting his own discomfort at mentions of biology. “Because you certainly didn’t smell that close to rut yesterday when I met you, and that’s the most likely reason that you’re breaking through the neutralizer so quickly.”

Once again, Sherlock felt something tiny inside him grieve as the faint scent of excited alpha was extinguished. He set the can aside and reached for John’s neck. He started when John drew back abruptly.

“Hey!”

John could hardly help it: even as socialized as he was he couldn’t stop this instinctive response. Alpha or omega, the neck was a very intimate place to be touched. Vulnerable.

“Oh, for goodness sake, hold still. I’m not going to ravish you. I just want to get your collar off.”

“What?”

Somehow this didn’t make John feel any better. Neutralized and without a collar he would be rendered illegal and the penalties for an alpha attempting to pass him/herself off as another dynamic were quite severe. He stood quietly as he could, however, trying not to shiver as Sherlock’s fingers grazed the skin of his nape, deactivating the catch.

“Well, Donovan’s hardly going to let an unfamiliar alpha into her territory. I mean, she barely tolerates me, a fellow omega, and I am of immense service. Whether she acknowledges it or not.”

“You do realize if I go out like this, we’re breaking the law…”

Sherlock ignored John for a moment as he fussed with the clasp of the collar he now held in his hands. Then he glanced up and saw John’s worried face. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s just until she gets used to you. Then you can go back to being boringly legal.”

John tipped his head, not quite sure what to make of this.

“Here, set your finger there.” Sherlock pointed to the collar’s clasp. John obliged though he still felt anxious about all this.

“Relax, John, if someone makes a fuss, I’ll take the blame for it.”

While he wanted to point out there was little possibility that if he was caught the situation would be so simply resolved, John didn’t have the chance to comment. He was distracted when Sherlock pressed his collar into his hand.

“There now.”

“ _There now_ , what?”

“Please, John, don’t be so obtuse this early on or I am going to regret my decision.”

New worry flared in John’s chest as to whether Sherlock meant inviting him to go out with him or his sponsorship. This anxiety was overridden by shock when Sherlock continued.

“I have programmed your fingerprint into catch. Now you can take it on and off yourself.”

John knew his eyes were boggled, but he couldn’t help himself. It didn’t help when Sherlock looked at him as though he was stupid.

“I’m not going to want to be bothered with having to take your collar on and off all the time, John. And from the shiver and quickening of your pulse when I touched your skin, it’s obvious how sensitive your neck is. And I have no desire for you to be distracted by being stirred… I told you before, that’s not what this sponsorship is about.”

“Besides, should we get separated or you find yourself in a dire circumstance, you may need to add or lose that accessory when I am not around to assist you. So this seems the most reasonable solution.”

“ _Reasonable_ is hardly the word I’d use.”

It slipped out before John could stop himself. It was a ludicrous proposition, and Jon couldn’t imagine what sort of “dire” circumstances he’d get in accompanying this omega. He was still reeling too with the heady knowledge that he now had control of his own collar. It was unheard of. Even the simple models had all manner of “unpickable” locks for security.

Once again, John understood his new omega was less than sane. This was underlined when he looked up and saw his sponsor studying him and Sherlock shot him a tight and fleeting smile.

“You coming or not, Doctor?” With that Sherlock darted out the door and down the stairs.

John's eyes followed him as he headed down. Then he glanced back at the kitchen. His stomach fluttered in the same way it did before they went on mission. That, and the lingering scent of excited omega, combined in a way that made him feel truly sharp for the first time in ages.

He drew a deep breath and stuck his collar in the pocket of his jacket before calling out. “Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I’ll skip the tea. I’m off and out with Sherlock.”

Mrs. Hudson popped out of the kitchen. She followed John out and down the stairs, surprisingly agile for a woman with “a hip.”

“Both of you are going out?”

Sherlock called back over his shoulder. “Impossible suicides? Four of them? There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!”

Now they were all on the bottom landing, Mrs. Hudson stood where Sherlock could give her a familial “goodbye” scenting. She returned it, smiling at his pleased scent and following this with a goodnatured shake of her head.

“Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent.”

Sherlock threw the door open and a crisp rush of fresh air blew in. “Who cares about decent?”

John, hot on Sherlock’s heels now that he’d committed himself, stopped shy of the door when a thin-fingered but firm grasp settled on his wrist. He blushed, realizing Mrs. Hudson was expecting a goodbye scenting from him as well. He was incredibly touched to be accepted so readily into her small Baker St. pack, mental as it was. Though after his earlier lapse, likely she thought he fit right in.

Unused to such displays, he was awkward, but Mrs Hudson was remarkably tolerant. Of course, it didn’t help matters that Sherlock watched from the door, obviously growing increasingly impatient

“Enough, John. It’s not as if you’re deploying after all. And Mrs. Hudson, you shouldn’t be coddling him so. We’ve wasted enough time already and the game is on!

John had no idea exactly what Sherlock meant by this, but he pulled himself away from Mrs. Hudson, who gave them both a happy wave.

With his new omega, John stepped out the door, into the fading light of the evening, and possibly, if he was lucky, an adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thank you again for all the comments and kudos. The enthusiasm for this story has certainly kept the muse spry. Well, that and the fact the general plotline and so much of the dialog already exists. 
> 
> Hope you all had a good weekend!


	7. Revelations

As he rode in the taxi with his new sponsor, through the cab’s window John watched darkness drape itself over London.

His mind was still whirling as he tried to make sense of Sherlock’s unfathomable actions. Not that he was complaining. After the past weeks of wearing the CLACC’s constraining collar his fingers kept reaching up to touch his blissfully bare throat.

“Was it too tight?”

“What?”

John glanced over to where Sherlock continued to fiddle with his phone as if he hadn’t just spoken. The omega didn’t bother to look up.

“You keep touching your neck. It’s distracting.” Sherlock referred to John’s collar only vaguely, just in case the cabdriver was listening. “I surmised the reason for this, was that what you were wearing before was too tight.”  

Dropping his hand immediately, color bloomed on John’s cheeks. “No… No… I’d been told it was too loose actually.”

”You were told?” This drew gray eyes up from the phone. John wasn’t quite sure how to decipher the question until he caught the light scent of annoyance. Before he could even nod, his sponsor cut in.

“Was it?” Sherlock’s brows rose in question, his expression mildly perplexed. “I would have thought with your physiology that I’d gotten the tension of it perfect.”

It was true. Normally the clasp of a new collar was locked for the first time by the hand of the alpha’s owner, but when John had donned Sherlock’s before leaving the center, it had felt near perfect, barely there. No different from the military’s loose cord he’d been used to wearing that carried his identification tags.

“Well, technically it’s supposed to be visible.” John’s pulse picked up, the collar sitting heavy in his pocket as he cast a quick glance at their indifferent driver. “And felt.” He added sounding a bit guilty.

"Seems counterintuitive. One would think that for your types in particular, higher and tighter would just be distressing.”

The curiousness in Sherlock’s eyes prompted John to be more honest than he normally dared. “It is… But they say one gets used to it after a time.”

“Have you ever?”

John cast his mind back to the Center and all the times before his service when he’d been previously collared. “Gotten used to it? Um… no.”

“Well then, we’ll leave _it_ as it is for when you have to wear it.” Sherlock dropped his eyes back down to his phone.

_Have to?_

John wondered about the peculiarity of this phrasing. Technically, an alpha was to be collared at all times unless he or she was bonded. Even then, since visible mate marks were no longer in fashion,  it was customary for the alpha’s neck to be encircled by a stiff silver or gold band, while the omega partner wore a ring to show the bond.

Was it possible that his new sponsor might allow him to be bare-necked within the flat too?

John didn’t dare ask: it was too much to hope for. Instead, he opted to be grateful for the simple grace Sherlock had already afforded him, forgoing having the collar re-fitted.

“Thank you.” Then John suddenly realized he hadn’t yet properly thanked Sherlock for his new collar in the first place, another exchange usually conducted with a certain amount of ceremony. He felt a sharp pang of conviction, particularly given what a plush one it was.

“Er… thank you for _it_ too. I’m sorry I didn’t say earlier.” John knew he wasn’t doing this correctly, but the circumstance were so strange: sitting side by side with this omega, not naked and kneeling.

Sherlock’s eyes darted up to John again, pulled by the earnestness in the alpha’s voice. There were two reasons for this. The first was how odd it struck him, for John to be thanking him for the symbol of his ownership, one that had obviously been uncomfortable to bear in the past. The second, and he was loath to admit it, was that his omega side craved reassurance he’d made the right choice.

Knowing enough that his new alpha would need a collar, he’d gone to Harrod’s straight from Barts before he’d even filled out all the paperwork for John’s adoption. He’d spent nearly two hours at the counter before choosing one, wanting to make sure it was perfect for John.

It had annoyed him at the time, both the care and this indecision. It wasn’t like him at all. He recalled the shop clerk’s appalled face when he’d muttered something about how "inconvenient" oppression was.

“It’s adequate then?”

“Adequate?” John’s expression was incredulous. “Yeah…  I mean, it’s about the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me.”

While hearing this assuaged any lingering concerns about his choice, John’s admission left a hollow feeling in Sherlock’s chest. “Ah, well… That’s good.”

As much as he hated small talk, he made an attempt at it, wanting to learn a bit more about alpha Watson than he knew already. “Speaking of 'things,' when will the rest of yours be arriving?”

Sherlock’s gaze was diverted by a new text from Lestrade. “Not that it really matters, I suppose. Mrs. Hudson can surely deal with it.”

It wasn’t until after he’d replied to Lestrade that he realized John hadn’t answered.

“John?”

Looking up Sherlock was shocked by the alpha’s posture. John’s head was down, his usually stiff shoulders slumped. Strong surgical hands sat atop his knees clenching and unclenching, the left one tremoring slightly.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. That pack’s all I’ve got.” John’s cleared his throat, the words obviously choking him. “Of course as my sponsor you’re welcome to all of it.” Pained blue eyes flickered up and then off to the side.

This was the second time Sherlock had heard John speak his name. The low, rough timbre sent sparks shooting down his spine, but it was the embarrassment in the alpha’s voice that really moved him.

 _Ah, alpha pride…_   

Of course, John was distressed. Despite their virtually enslaved state, alphas’ instincts for provision were still mightily capitalized on by society. Sherlock read a whole other layer of John’s history in the fact that after more than a decade in the service everything he possessed could be fit within a single rucksack.

“I doubt there’s anything you own I’d be interested in, John.” While he’d meant this to soothe, his words had just the opposite effect. Sherlock felt a distinct and unprecedented sense of panic when John’s shoulders only slumped further.

Given the evidence of the alpha’s emotions, Sherlock was immediately grateful that he’d thought to spray John down again before they’d left the flat. He cast his mind back through all his knowledge of alpha psychology and came upon a hopeful antidote.

“You’ve seen the flat. So surely you must understand that I’ve no need for material things.” While it was tiresome, Sherlock kept his tone mild. He could be quite the thespian when the situation called for it. “What I really need from you is _service_ …”

John’s head lifted. “But you said…”

Unfortunately, Sherlock realized, his wording had been taken the wrong way. His irritation at this stripped the silk from his words. “Please do stop thinking with your knot, John. What I meant was labor… Work… Assistance.”

While the way Sherlock said this stung, a wave of relief also washed over John: “service” was something he could give in a heartbeat if he was allowed.

Seeing his “alpha crisis” averted, Sherlock returned to his phone. However, as much as he would have like to have ignored it, now that things were cleared up between them, he couldn’t miss the furtive little glances John kept making in his direction. This was why he hadn’t wanted an alpha in the first place, all these distracting interactions and the following undoubtedly tedious explanations. Finally Sherlock lowered his phone and slipped it into his pocket.

“Okay, you’ve got questions.”

John still wasn’t ready to hold eye contact. He fidgeted uncomfortably. “Yeah…

“So right now we’re, uh… _working_?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sighed.”Next”

 John had surmised the answer to his next question from the interactions he’d witnessed in the flat, but  he wanted confirmation. “Where are we going?”

“Crime scene. Again, _next_?”

Sherlock’s affirmation, bored as it sounded, sent a little pulse of adrenaline quickening through John’s veins. “Who are you? What do you do?”

“What do you think?”

There was enough evidence on his website the answer should be patently obvious to anyone who truly paid attention. But then most people were idiots. Sherlock was disappointed, thinking he’d have to add John into this group.

This shifted, however, when John offered a tentative, “I’d say private detective…”

“But?” Sherlock’s tone perked up considerably.

“But the police don’t go to private detectives.”

Sherlock snorted, both in disappointment at John’s lack of creativity, and at the mention of the “police.”

“I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world.” He couldn’t help but add with no small amount of pride. “I invented the job.”

After pondering this for a click, John asked, “What does that mean, exactly?”

Seriously, this lack of understanding was getting irritating and Sherlock wondered if John was acting like this on purpose, trying to get a rise out of him. Never mind that if he was, the tactic was working.

“It means, when the police are out of their depth, _which is always_ , they consult me.”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.” John shot back, grimacing when he saw the look these words earned him.

Sherlock wondered how the alpha had ascertained that he was unpaid for his activities. Still, this hardly made him “amatuer” in any sense of the word. However, it was clear he was going to have to prove his prowess. His thin chest puffed up just slightly at the challenge.

“Look, when I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ It surprised you.”

“Yes.” At the recollection, discomfort flitted over John’s features. It was clear that, like most people, he didn’t like his life pried into. “How did you know?”

This was just the opening Sherlock wanted and he threw himself into his explanation with gusto. “I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart’s… Doctor...”

Sherlock dropped his voice, though it was obvious the omega cabbie was clearly not listening, lost in thoughts, he deduced, about adding a third female alpha to his home harem. _Terrible idea._

“Medical training is not a small accomplishment for an alpha, but largely useless outside a few venues. And given your drive the answer was obvious. Added to by the fact there were no permanent marks on your neck from long-term collar wear. So, plainly, army doctor.”

Seeing he now had John’s full attention, Sherlock couldn’t help but glow a bit. He rushed on, before he inevitably lost it.

“I could tell you’d been abroad, but not sunbathing. This was further confirmed but the fact your face is tanned. But no tan above your wrists and no lack of tan beneath the rim of the Central Center’s collar.

“Your limp’s really bad when you walk. Of course with your dynamic, you generally can't just sit in the company of others, but even so, when you stand at attendance, it soon seems like you’ve forgotten about it, rather than it becoming bothersome. So it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then.”

At the mention of his leg, John’s eyes dropped away and his hand automatically reached for the solidity of his cane. Still, he heard the rest of his sponsor’s words quite clearly.

“Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

The sharp clack of tongue at the end of “Iraq” brought John’s gaze back to Sherlock’s. His voice was both cautious and slightly annoyed. “You said I had a therapist.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this display of alphic independence. It so fit the dynamic’s stereotype of never wanting to appear compromised. Not that he couldn’t sympathize.

“You’re a recently returned army ward with PTSD who's been given over to the state. You’re a potential 'feral' risk. One with a psychosomatic injury–  So of course you’ve got an appointed therapist."

John hummed at this, though his assent indicated he didn’t see his situation as being quite so obvious. Rather than stop him, this response only pushed Sherlock’s urge to explain his further deductions.

“Then there’s your brother.” He held out his hand expectantly. “Your phone.”

Something purred annoyingly inside him when John immediately retrieved it from the jacket of his coat and handed it over without question.  

“It’s not the standard military release issue that comes with discharge. No… It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player... You’re a bit old school  in your ideas on provision and you needed a sponsor. So, you wouldn’t have wasted your pension on this.

“It’s a gift, then.”

Turning it over in his hands Sherlock was quite aware of how John was looking at him. He was surprised to see not anger or vapid ignorance on the alpha’s face, but something remarkably akin to wonder. The look had the distressing effect of turning the internal state of his low belly into something warm and liquid.

Pushing this aside, he continued, pointing to the metallic surface of the mobile’s back.

“There’s scratches here, you see.

“Not one, but many. Made over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins.”

Sherlock nodded at the careful press of John’s poorly-tailored clothes. “The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat a luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner.”

John couldn’t help but blink when Sherlock said “man” and not “alpha.” It didn’t seem as if he’d done it to be careful either: as wrapped up as he was in his explanation at the moment, John doubted Sherlock could be bothered with who might be listening. It was surprising how good the use of this one word made him feel. 

“Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

John nodded. “The engraving.”

“Yes.” Sherlock smirked. “Harry Watson: clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re a veteran in need of sponsorship.

“Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Maybe beta, but I’m betting omega, given the shine of this model. Alpha and beta males prefer black or brushed surfaces.

“Now, _Clara_. Who’s _Clara_? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model’s only six months old.

“Marriage in trouble then – six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment.”

John couldn’t help but notice how Sherlock muttered “sentiment” like the word tasted off.

“But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. I'm betting it was an alpha issue...”

Keeping his eyes carefully on John to assess the alpha’s reaction Sherlock spoke his next words a bit more carefully.  “He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. Or at least it might seem that way, but no… Your brother has an addict’s selfishness and he’s trying to assuage his guilt. What little he feels.

“It’s obvious to me after the comment you made about your belongings that the majority of your earnings were likely going to him and he dropped his family claim on you when you were injured: your reduction in wages now being pensioned no longer enough to interest him. Or, not enough in his mind to measure against the expense of housing an injured alpha with few prospects for bringing in additional income.”

John shifted his stare to gaze out the window. He remained silent but the tick of muscle in his jaw was more than answer enough.

Sherlock wondered what it must feel like to be abandoned by a brother after providing for him for so long. His mind shifted to his own. He didn’t like what he saw there, so he deleted it.

“It’s all for the better he released you, John. Don’t imagine that you cared at all for his drinking.”

Sherlock left off his speculations of how abusive this alcoholic omega brother likely was. He was distracted by his ward’s next question from wondering too hard if John had issues with a drunkard, how the alpha would react to belonging to a drug addict .

“How can you possibly know about the drinking?”

Surprised by the query Sherlock felt himself unintentionally smile. He’d expected for John to react with anger after his familial deductions, not curiousity. “

“Shot in the dark, really. Good one, though.” He lifted the mobile and pointed to the port.  “Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them.”

With this effectively concluding his demonstration, Sherlock handed John’s phone back with a flourish. “There you go. You see – you were right.”

Blue eyes stared as John shook his head in confusion.  “I was right? Right about what?”

Sherlock couldn’t keep smugness from his tone. “The police don’t consult amateurs.”

Despite how assured he sounded, he found he couldn’t hold John’s astonished gaze. Sherlock looked away, out the window at the London lights whizzing past, biting his lip nervously. He had to work hard against his omega  instincts, keeping his posture straight, though inwardly he cringed already, waiting for the anger John had so far postponed.

Or, even worse, just blatant dismissal.

John was lost for a moment studying the back of his sponsor's dark head; astounded by the brain that lurked beneath those unruly curls. Sherlock had alluded to his skills on his website, but seeing the man in action.

_Now that…_

“That ... was...  amazing.”

For some unknown reason Sherlock’s ears grew hot the minute John’s soft words registered. But this was nowhere near the heat generated within his core at this alphic praise. He turned around, his turn to stare now, half-convinced John was pulling some kind of  cruel tease on him.  Studying John, all Sherlock saw was more of that damnably attractive earnestness.

He hated to allow any omega-ish insecurity to show, or for it to seem that he was fishing, but when he found his words returned to him, he couldn’t help but ask, “Do you think so?”

If he perceived any of this internal turmoil or Sherlock’s lightly anxious scent, John didn’t acknowledge it. Instead he shook his head, his expressive face acting out the range of a man who’s had one opinion and just startlingly discovered it shifted.

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary.” John offered this again, his voice the perfect pitch of alpha praise. “It was quite extraordinary.”

Sherlock was shocked to feel a perpetually frantic space in his mind suddenly still at these words. And this was nothing compared to the glorious purr that curled around his suddenly too quickly beating heart.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“Oh?’ John tipped his blond head to the side. “What do people normally say?”

“Piss off’!”

It was obvious from the inflection of his reply, Sherlock was repeating words oft heard in the very tone they were normally delivered. John noted the tight smile offered after, belying how painful such dismissal must feel to this crazy, omega genius.

The raw vulnerability of it, though it flashed for only an instant, sparked something deep and primal, something protective, within John. And what’s more, he understood now what his sponsor needed more than material things, likely even more than “service.”

While it certainly wasn't of the magnitude of Sherlock's discernments, still pleased with his own small insight, John couldn’t help but grin. He turned away to hide his smile, lest his keen-eyed sponsor deduce it as well. There was no doubt in his mind that Sherlock would not appreciate what he'd gleaned.

John’s new knowledge was safe, however, even though Sherlock noted what again was far from the normal reaction he’d expected. Settling himself back into his seat, he pulled out his mobile once more, his mind only half on Lestrade’s newest text. Gray eyes darted over to the alpha, sitting quietly now, raptly staring out the taxi window.

It seemed tonight he’d been given two mysteries to solve.  Turning back to his phone, Sherlock had a feeling that the “suicides” would be the easier one to unravel by far.

God, he hoped so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter didn't have much action. My apologies. But the crime scene is next. Hooray! Oh, the fun the boys will have!
> 
> A million thanks to everyone who's dropped me a note. Those kudos don't hurt an ego either though, I'll admit.
> 
> And for those of you who've subscribed to my other stories, I was able to retrieve all my documents. No virus, just typed the hell out of that computer. Anyway, if all goes well, I'll be spamming your inboxes with chapters for some of my other stories before the weekend is over.


	8. Partners in Crime?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone help me!... 
> 
> I have other stories I should be writing... But I can't stop myself from working on this one. I'm like Sherlock back in his cocaine days. 
> 
> Seriously.
> 
> The writing itself wouldn't be so bad, but I have been obsessively watching the "Study in Pink" episode, trying to align all the subtle nuances of the character's interactions with this fic and interpret them through the lens of this AU... Crazy.
> 
> I do have to give a huge thanks to Ariane DeVere and her transcription of the episode which I found here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html. She offered its use asking only that she be mentioned as the source. That's the least I can do for what a huge help this document has been. It has been an amazing road map.
> 
> Okay, last thing... This chapter is fucking huge. Twenty-three pages... I have been trying to break these chapters off at natural seeming points and this one... Well, that ending place just seemed elusive. So, I hope you can endure it. Possibly enjoy it.
> 
> And now, seriously, I am going to go finish some of those other chapters... I think.

A few minutes after they fell silent, the cab pulled to a stop. John could see yellow tape and police vehicles through the taxi’s windshield. His heartbeat picked up. While excited, the idea of being scent-masked and un-collared around so many officials also made him very nervous.

He struggled up and out of the car, Sherlock slipping out easily after. A bit of residual shame flushed through John when Sherlock paid for the cab. 

“Did I get anything wrong?”

As he watched the taxi pull away it took John a moment to realize that Sherlock was asking about his deductions. He fell into step alongside his sponsor, doing his best to adjust his limping gait to Sherlock’s long strides.

“Harry and me don’t get on.” John stated this with the carefulness alphas used discussing their “higher” dynamic relations, not criticizing his sibling directly. “We never have, really.

“Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they’re breaking their bond. You were right about the alpha issue, to an extent: they’re both omegas and they’d brought a female alpha into their household because Clara wanted a baby.”

Sherlock watched as John hesitated; it was obvious he didn’t normally talk much about his life or that of his family.

“But it wasn’t the alpha, Jessica, who caused the rift. Though Harry blames her, of course.” There was no mistaking the bitter edge to these words.

“No, Harry and Clara’d been together a long time before they bonded and the trouble was there already.”

John admitted at last, his tone both clipped and resigned, “Harry is a drinker.”

Sherlock understood immediately that this was why Harry left. No doubt Clara had conceived and her omega instincts had her tightening up her nest for her impending offspring. This would include demanding her bondmate stop drinking.

_An omega leaving an injured alpha brother, and a pregnant bondmate: Harry Watson’s alcoholism must be quite advanced._

While he supposed one might feel sorry for the disheveled state of John’s kin, mostly Sherlock just felt pleased with the validation of his personal science.

“I was spot on, then!” Delighted with his accuracy Sherlock drew himself up just a little bit straighter. ”Didn’t expect to be right about everything.”  

Confidence was one thing, but John wasn’t fond of smugness. Particularly after the confession of such shameful family business. Though he kept his face straight, inside he fought hard not to smirk as he took his new omega down a notch.

“ _Harry_... is short for Harriet.”

He kept walking, well aware that Sherlock had stopped in his tracks. The proud puff of the omega’s chest deflated slightly.

“Harry’s your sister?” Sherlock mumbled behind him.

Ignoring the fact he didn’t rightly know where he was going, John continued forward, calling out, “Are you coming? Because I have absolutely no idea what I am doing here.”

Sherlock was beside him again in an instant, fists clenched, gritting his teeth.

“Sister!

"Of course I should have figured it from the mobile… Not male omega glitter, but  female omega butch.”

While John couldn’t deny he found Sherlock’s frustrated rant vindicating, they were getting very near the taped off area of the crime scene and he could feel his anxiety spiking upwards again.

“Seriously, Sherlock… What am I doing here?”

Still locked into his anger at his own shortsightedness, Sherlock ignored the question. “There’s always something! Stupid to have taken the name at its face…”

John dropped back as they approached the police barrier. He scented the air and fell a bit more behind Sherlock. A very stern-looking female omega stepped out from behind a police car to meet them. He recognized her from her photo in the paper as DI Donovan.

“Hello, Freak.”

John eyes widened at this address. Though it was obvious from how Sherlock had previously spoken about the DI, that things weren’t exactly smooth between them, it was hardly a hail he’d expected to hear directed at the “world’s only consulting detective.”

Sherlock meanwhile, found it strange Donovan was out here and not inside. Keen eyes scanned the other omega. Then he noticed the corners of her mouth looked wet. There was a tiny fleck of partially digested food, barely visible, near the crease on the left of her bottom lip.

_Donovan’s just recently vomited._

Though everyone knew Lestrade really did all the heavy lifting, Donovan ruled him and the rest of her team with an iron fist. Yes, the DI was extremely hardy, and hardened, and if this "suicide" followed the others, the body would be barely messy at all. Certainly nothing to get ill over. 

Sherlock’s brow creased. _What would make her sick then?_

Dipping his head in false deference, he leaned in to imperceptibly sniff. “Good evening, Inspector. I’m here to see sergeant Lestrade.”

Now it was Donovan’s forehead that furrowed. “Why?”

Sherlock’s smug tone was back. “I was invited.”

He knew he was getting Lestrade in trouble saying this, but the alpha officer’s last omega had signed him over to the force two years ago when she’d broken her bond with him. So, Lestrade belonged to the Yard, not to Donovan personally.

As such, technically, there was only so much she could do to punish him.  And it wasn’t as if the sergeant wasn’t already used to her giving him hell on a daily basis. 

“ _Why?_ ” Donovan’s tone remained exactly the same, but her expression had darkened considerably.

“I think he wants me to take a look.” There was no mistaking Sherlock’s sarcasm. He felt confident Donovan wouldn’t bar him from the scene. They both knew Lestrade only called him in when her team had run out of options and the alpha was trying to save the department’s face.

Even though she was going to allow him in, Donovan made her disapproval clear.  “Well, you know what _I_ think, don’t you?”

Lifting the tape Sherlock dipped beneath it. “Always, Sally.”

Normally the new scowl on her face at his use of her first name would have satisfied Sherlock. But with such delicious new information about her and his own new alpha, who, he wouldn’t admit, he wanted to further impress, Sherlock just couldn’t help himself.

He took a deep and audible sniff this time.  “Speaking of knowing… You do know it’s not the flu. Right? Nor is it that terrible pot-noodle you had for dinner. In your condition, recent as it is, you really should be taking better care of yourself. ”

Surprise flitted across Donovan’s features. “I don’t know what…”

John chose the wrong time to shuffle his feet. the motion drew the DI’s dark eyes to him in an instant.

“Who’s this?

While John stood there, working hard not to cringe away from her sharp-eyed scrutiny; Donovan sniffed at him. Sherlock remained completely unruffled but John’s heart was in his throat as his sponsor turned and introduced him as though he was anything but an alpha.

“Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson.

“Dr. Watson, Detective Inspector, Sally Donovan.” Not done provoking the DI, Sherlock added for good measure, _“_ old friend.”

“Colleague?” It was Donovan’s turn to snipe back. “How do _you_ get a colleague?!” Her voice was laden with disbelief. She turned her gaze to John who had apparently passed her sniff test, and looked at him with something akin to pity.

 _“_ What? Did he follow you home?”

The irony that it was actually far more the other way round hit John hard. And, given the manner in which the DI continued to stare at him, John was sure she’d soon discern this. He stood himself down not wanting to get Sherlock in trouble.

“Would it be better if I just waited and…”

Sherlock snorted loudly in disapproval and lifted the tape up beckoning him to cross over. “No."

If she’d been feeling better, Donovan would have fought Sherlock and his tagalong harder, as it was though, she didn’t have the energy for the effort and, they _were_ stumped.

She clicked on her radio. “You called _ him_?”

Even with the crackle there was no missing the uncomfortable apology in the unseen alpha’s reply. “Yes, Ma’am…”

Donovan sighed. “Yeah… Well, your Freak’s here now. Bringing him in. You and I will discuss this later.”

John couldn’t help but dip his head hearing the omega’s tone; he knew a precursor to punishment when he heard it. It didn’t help that the scent of the DI’s anger was overwhelming. Sympathy welled in his chest for the other alpha. Whatever “later” entailed was apt to be very unpleasant.

Fortunately for John, the sight and scent of other alphas filled the air as they drew closer to the heart of the scene, distracting him from these thoughts.

Like the military, alphas were still used quite a bit in law enforcement, fire-fighting too. In police work, their natural inclination to chase, as well as to protect; their physical strength; and the power of their voices made them good guard dogs, though their actions were tightly monitored by higher dynamic superiors.

Unlike the military, however, while some were still privately sponsored, these days, the Yard owned most of its alphas now.

The busy, brusque way the police alpha’s moved about the scene and the sharp shouts of their omega and beta overseers reminded John instantly of his service. A wave of nostalgia washed over him, followed by a swell of grief for his life’s loss of alphic camaraderie.

While John was lost in his reveries, Sherlock’s pale eyes eagerly scanned everything. His lips were drawn tight with disapproval, noting the incompetent trampling of the scene’s foregrounds. However, his unhappy expression increased tenfold when a semi-feral looking alpha stalked out of the building to meet them at the pavement.

 _“_ Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.” 

Hearing the familiar name, John glanced up. He frowned seeing another alpha charging towards them. On instinct, he moved to place himself in front of Sherlock, but a cautioning hand on his arm stopped him.

It wasn’t easy for John to mind. With his shaggy hair and sharp features, this Anderson fellow looked exactly like the kind of alpha they used in storybooks to frighten children. Flaring nostrils, eyes wild, he displayed all the worst sorts of alpha behaviors too. Everything in his posture was aggressive. The lean body held within the crime-scene coveralls vibrated with barely-contained rage.

As Anderson drew closer, John couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose. _Doesn’t the yard suppress its investigators?_

The man reeked like he’d just finished a rut. If this were true, it would certainly explain the alpha’s overly agitated state.

Getting into Sherlock’s personal space, the Anderson alpha made a point to loom. His voice was just shy of a bellow. “It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?”

Sherlock took a deep breath in, sniffing. “Quite clear.” He turned to Donovan who was looking rather peaked. “Does the chief know you’re messing with your team’s suppressants and borrowing the Yard’s alphas?”

Before Donovan could respond to this, Anderson jumped in, enraged. “Where do you get off making those kinds of accusations.”

Sherlock snorted, “Oh, come now, Anderson. You stink of rut and Sally here, despite all her attempts to neutralize it with soap and deoderant, smells like she’s been living in your used pants bin.”

Although he realized what his sponsor said was true, John’s brows rose at this.

 _So maybe it wasn’t post-rut aggression, but just Sherlock, who had incited the other alpha initially._ Still, it seemed foolhardy for the omega to say what he had. It had about all the tact of poking at two angry bears with a sharp stick.

Apparently, however, Sherlock wasn’t finished even yet. He pulled in another deep sniff and shot a look at Donovan. “Ooh, and might I recommend a heartier anti-perspirant, Inspector. I think yours just vaporised.

“May I go in now?”

Before the furiously blushing Donovan could answer, Anderson rushed to her rescue; oblivious to the fact these protective actions only added merit to Sherlock’s claim.

“Now look! You have no right to go casting such aspersions about the Inspector!”

“I’m not casting anything.” Sherlock stepped past them to the door of the building Anderson had emerged from, John at his back.

“I’m sure in her preheat fog, Sally just _forgot_ to have your rut inhibitor refreshed. I’m sure too, she stopped by your room at the barracks after hours to apologize for her oversight.”

Sherlock stopped and called back over his shoulder. John felt the bottom drop out of his stomach when his sponsor next spoke.

“You really should keep your room cleaner, Anderson, for those unexpected visits by your superiors. I’m guessing Sally had to give you a brush up on den maintenance. Nice of her to show you how to do it... scrubbing your floors for you, if the state of her knees is anything to go by.”

John’s heart skipped a beat at these words. As an alpha, he couldn’t imagine the repercussions of saying something like that to an authority.

“Though maybe your barracks life will be ending soon, Anderson; once your DI takes the test and her pregnancy’s confirmed. If her early onset litter-sickness isn’t proof enough.

“If that’s the case, though I shiver at the thought of your union, I suppose I should congratulate you both. Unless of course Sally felt the need to carry out multiple den checks?”

Sherlock broke into a smug grin at the horrified expressions on the DI and her forensic technician’s faces. It slipped for only a moment when his gaze flickered over to John and he saw the alpha looked only slightly less appalled.

While he rather felt sorry for both of them, having their affair so publicly aired, John couldn’t help but glance at Donovan’s knees. Sure enough, even with her stockings on, he could see the darkened bruises behind the sheer.

He half expected the DI to immediately order him and Sherlock thrown off the scene, but the Inspector was almost instantly caught up in a heated conversation with a jealous, forensic alpha. Quickly John limped after Sherlock into the more protected space of the building.

“Funny,” Sherlock muttered just loud enough for John to hear. “I’ll admit I’m surprised at Donovan’s kneeling. She struck me more as the type to make the alpha just lay back and take it.”

“Okay… I am deleting that. Immediately! And all accompanying imagery.”

John didn’t know quite what the hell Sherlock was talking about “deleting” but he rather wished he hadn’t heard him. The “on the back alpha” thing had given him a flashback.

“You know for an alpha, you’re awfully sensitive around issues of intercourse.”

John ducked his head avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.  Having no desire for his sponsor to go deducing any more of his sexual history than the omega likely already had, he was surprisingly grateful that just inside door they were met by the alpha, Lestrade.

The sergeant’s dark eyes flickered towards the sounds of the row outside.

“See you made your usual stealthy entrance.” Lestrade looked back down to finish zipping up coveralls similar to Anderson’s. There was a table next to him filled with more of these and other equipment.

Sherlock nodded at the table and then to John. “You need to wear one of those too.” 

A frown crossed over Lestrade’s face as he took John in. His nostrils flared and the creases in his brow deepened.

“Who’s this?”

“He’s with me.” Sherlock offered as though the three words explained everything.

John kept his posture firm, though he was extremely conscious this was the other alpha’s territory.

“Yeah, but who is he?”

The repetition of this question clearly annoyed Sherlock and he responded with omegan authority. “I _said_ he’s with me.”

This was good enough for John. Lestrade too apparently, since the Sergeant didn’t ask again.

Stripping out of his coat, hoping to god that his collar didn’t fall out of his pocket, John pulled the coveralls on quickly. He zipped them up as high as they’d go, uncomfortable with how Lestrade’s eyes kept going to his neck.

Once he’d donned the gear, John realized Sherlock hadn’t followed suit (quite literally).

“Aren’t you gonna put one on?”

The imperious look his sponsor gave him left John shaking his head in mild disbelief. _Oh, of course, consulting omega. So, obviously above protocol. What was I thinking?_

At least Sherlock was willing to pick up a pair of latex gloves. “So where are we?”

“Upstairs.” Lestrade motioned with his silvered head as he picked up a pair of gloves himself.

John’s brow creased first at the stairs and then at the look the sergeant gave him. They were both obviously considering his leg and the climb. Finally Lestrade shrugged and started up the steps.

“I can give you two minutes.”

“I may need longer.”

Lestrade snorted at this. “After the stunt you pulled outside? You’re lucky to be getting any time at all. So don’t push it.”

The authority in Lestrade’s voice took John aback, but what stunned him even more was that Sherlock fell quiet and actually minded, not “pushing it,” as it were. While he didn’t want to admit it, this made his inner alpha just a bit jealous.

In the space of Sherlock’s silence, Lestrade began reciting a litany of details. “Her name’s Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We’re running them now for contact info. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her." 

Highly conscious of the other officers milling about, John followed behind, listening to Lestrade as they climbed.

Two storey’s up, from the landing, he could see through an open door, into a room where the fully- clothed body of a beta woman lay face down in the middle of the floor.  Portable lights made the pink coat worn by the body even brighter.

While he and Lestrade paused at the door, Sherlock walked a few steps into the room. John watched his sponsor stop then and hold one hand out in front of himself as he set his attention on the corpse.

Following Lestrade in, John took position next to the sergeant, off to the side.  While he tried to still his expression, he couldn’t stop the well of deep feelings that rose within him for the beta. If she’d been conscious, having been close to death himself, he could too easily imagine her panic, the terrible terror it

_And then there’d be those left behind…_

Sherlock was intent on the body until a certain scent caught his nose. He frowned realizing John was breaking through the neutralizers already. Of course, with his high moral sense, being out and un-collared like this was likely to be significantly stressful.

But it was more than stress.

Flicking his gaze over, he caught John’s pained expression.

_Why does he have to be so damned empathetic? I would have thought war would have left him far more calloused._

With a jolt, Sherlock realized that he wasn’t the only one who’d caught John’s scent. He shifted his gaze to Lestrade.

“Shut up!”

His harsh bark had his desired effect and immediately caught the attention of both alphas.

Lestrade’s dark eyes widened and he raised his hands up, palms open in a gesture of appeasement. There was no mistaking the startlement in his tone.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking. It’s annoying.”

While it sounded bratty, the words did just what he hoped they’d do. He didn’t miss the look exchanged between John and Lestrade.

 _Good._ Though it was annoying too, Sherlock needed them to share a little alphic solidarity.

With “sad” and “suspicious” alpha both attended to, Sherlock was pleased to be able to turn his focus back to the body and the letters scrabbled into the floor beside her.

Across the room blue eyes followed the omega’s every minute movement.

John was fascinated watching Sherlock study the scene. It was almost like having a front row seat at some macabre dance performance: the way Sherlock moved about the body, his long, latexed fingers carefully touching here and there.

The tilt of Sherlock’s head as he considered each angle, long neck peeking out from behind his weighted scarf…

It was, John realized, _exhilarating_.

When Sherlock stilled at last and stood, Lestrade recognized the omega’s satisfied smirk.

“Got anything?”

“Not much.” Of course this wasn’t true, Sherlock had many things but he wasn’t ready to give them away yet. Nor did he want to admit how wonderfully heady it felt to have both alpha’s looking at him so expectantly.

He decided to let them hang a little longer while he pulled his gloves off and his phone out. He wanted to confirm a couple of his deductions first. The lovely warmth of a good mystery and interesting company was disrupted when a too familiar voice broke into the quiet room.

“She’s German. ‘Rache’: it’s German for ‘revenge!’ She could be trying to tell us something…”

John had been so intent on watching Sherlock, Anderson’s voice gave him a start. Apparently the forensic alpha had settled things with the DI and joined them. Donovan must have said something to appease the man, since he seemed much more relaxed now, though no less annoying.

Watching the other alpha leaning casually against the doorframe, John recognized the pose as alpha posturing.  Anderson’s assertion was the same: having lost his position in the pack, outside, he was trying to re-establish some sort of dominance now.

John did his best to hold his eye roll. God, even he sometimes found his dynamic’s antics annoying. 

And if he felt Anderson’s intrusion off-putting, John couldn’t imagine how much it would irritate his sponsor. His speculation was confirmed when Sherlock covered the room in a few long strides to smartly shut the door on the forensic alpha’s face with a dismissively crisp, “Yes.  Thank you for your input.”

“So, she’s German?”

Sherlock looked up from his phone at Lestrade with an expression that told the sergeant he wasn’t showing himself to be too much higher on the IQ chart than Anderson.

“Of course she’s not!

“She’s from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night ... before... “ Gray eyes darted back down to his phone, “returning home to Cardiff.”

“So far, so obvious." 

Thus far John had remained quiet, partly because he was on someone else’s turf and still unsure of what he was supposed to be doing there. The other reason he’d held his tongue was because he didn’t want to be added to his sponsor’s ever-growing list of perceived idiots. But now he couldn’t help himself.

“Sorry... Obvious?

Lestrade ignored John, talking over him. “What about the message though?”

Sherlock caught this immediately. 

 _Oh, no… That won’t do at all_.  

He was surprised at the flash of anger that burned through him at Lestrade not recognizing his new alpha. He needed to assert John’s authority here since, obviously feeling at a disadvantage; John wasn’t going to do it.

“ _Dr._ Watson, what do you think?”

“Of the message?” John’s main thought, having seen the letters so painfully scratched into the floorboards, was that it was both desperate and distressing.

This was obviously the wrong thing to say, however, as his omega rolled his eyes at him. John felt his cheeks growing hot and the uncomfortable prickle of disappointed sponsor.

_Now on Sherlock’s idiot list… Got it._

“Of the body!” Sherlock’s tone revealed he felt his patience was being considerably taxed. However, he took the opportunity to once again posit John as an authority. “You’re a medical man.”

Lestrade had caught on by now. The alpha wasn’t happy with having his or the Yard’s position further reduced by his upstart consultant, omega though he might be.

“Wait, no! We have a whole team right outside.”

“They won’t work with me.”

The expression on Lestrade’s weary face asked, _do you blame them?_ Knowing this would have absolutely no effect, he growled in frustration.

“I’m breaking every rule letting you in here already! And you know Donovan’s going to put my knot in a vice for this.”

“Yes ... but you need me.” 

There was no sympathy in Sherlock’s voice and no negotiation. Dark eyes stared into gray in silent petition, but the omega’s gaze remained unblinking. Finally Lestrade dropped his eyes; his shoulders slumped in helpless resignation.

“Yes, I do. God help me.”

Even though as an omega, Sherlock knew he held the privileged position, he couldn’t help the atavistic thrill that coursed through his veins having stared down an alpha.

“Doctor Watson.”

“Hmmm?”

So caught up watching the power struggle playing out before him, it took John a moment for Sherlock’s satisfied tones to register.

While his sponsor’s victory had been remarkable to observe, John felt for Lestrade: this was the sergeant’s field, his territory. Were the world configured differently, John wondered if Lestrade would have capitulated as quickly.

Having been called upon now, John’s eyes went to the beta woman on the floor and then his sponsor. He knew Sherlock was waiting. However, despite the fact the sergeant was suppressed, Lestrade’s unhappiness hung heavy in the air.

Though he knew he might be made to pay for it later, John made a decision. If Sherlock was intent on bringing him along to crime scenes in the future, he needed to make an ally in Lestrade, not an enemy, and trampling over the sergeant’s territory wasn’t a good strategy for this.

So, instead of moving right over to the body, John made sure to catch the other alpha’s eye. He inclined his head, seeking permission.

While he likely appreciated the gesture, Lestrade knew better than to acknowledge it.

“Oh, do as he says,” he grumbled. He made a sweeping gesture with his hands turning the crime scene over. “Help yourself.”

Then Lestrade left the room, calling out, “Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.”

This order gave Anderson a small measure of command, done no doubt, John imagined, to smooth down the forensic alpha’s taxed hackles.

When John turned his attention back to Sherlock, his omega was eying him intently. John dipped his head and followed him over to the late Jennifer Wilson. His leg was acting up painfully again, so John leaned heavily on his cane as he lowered himself to his good knee.

“Well?”

Trading glances between his expectant omega and the body, John all but whispered, “In case I missed it somehow… Remind me. Just what am I doing here again?”

“Helping me make a point.” Sherlock’s tone was righteous.

“So… Uh… This is why you sponsored me? To help you make a point?”

Sherlock’s brow creased. There was truth in this, but the original point he'd intended to make was with Mycroft and his asinine demands. Though Sherlock didn't think John would appreciate this much either.

“Well, not exactly. But this is more fun certainly than what I imagine either one of us supposed you’d be doing. Right?"

“Fun?” John was appalled. “There’s a woman lying dead here.” But once again he was reminded of his earlier determinations that Sherlock was not balanced.

Case in point, as Sherlock responded, “Perfectly sound analysis. But I was rather hoping you’d go deeper.”

Hearing the door to the room open and Lestrade re-enter, smelling no happier than he left, John sighed. It was obvious Sherlock wanted him to put on a show. It was a bit outside the realm of usual alpha service, but then there was nothing usual at all about his sponsor.

Dragging his bad knee so that he was truly kneeling, John leaned forward to examine the body. He put his head down close to the woman’s neck where her scent glands were. Beta’s had them just the same as alphas and omega, though they remained underdeveloped.

Despite the fact she’d been dead some hours; John could still detect the light vanilla scent that was common to beta’s. It was tinged bitter, however, indicating stress, although her body looked relatively peaceful.

Shifting his head higher, he could smell bile around the area of the woman’s slightly opened mouth, but there was nothing visible beneath it. John sat up then and took her right hand to examine the color of the nail-beds.

He looked over at Sherlock. “Yeah ... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs.”

Sherlock’s gray eyes narrowed and he sounded disappointed. “You know what it was. You’ve read the papers.”

The reality of the situation hit John suddenly in a new way, as well as the import of it. “Wait, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth...?”

Lestrade’s voice rang out from behind John. “Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you’ve got.”

As John struggled back up to his feet, Sherlock began his recitation. “Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes.

“I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink.

“She travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

“Suitcase?”

John was as confused as Lestrade sounded. His eyes darted about the room trying to locate it.

Sherlock ignored both their questioning looks. “Suitcase, yes.” 

As if that settled the matter he went on, “She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was bonded. Husband was a beta, so there’s no mate mark.

“Not that she would have taken a mark anyways.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

Lestrade had been forced to talk to the DI when he was out in the hall, the smell of something in the building apparently making her unable to enter at the moment. Even so, she’d had no problem tearing him a new arsehole over the radio.

“If you’re just making this up…” He had to be able to give his boss something besides wild speculations.

Sherlock pointed down to Wilson’s damaged left hand.

“Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least.

“The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger.”

Sherlock clucked his tongue lightly: _yet another reason why bonding with anyone was stupid._

“It’s not for work; look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands. So ‘what’ or rather ‘who’ does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time. So, more likely a string of them…

“Simple.”

“That’s brilliant.”

John hadn’t meant to speak, but it was quite a different thing to hear Sherlock’s deductions when they weren’t aimed at him. Taking his sponsor’s words he put them together with the choreography of Sherlock’s earlier dance around the body.

Feeling omega eyes on him, John was suddenly aware that his exclamation had interrupted Sherlock’s deduction. He dipped his head.

“Sorry.”

Lestrade wasn’t sure what was going on between Sherlock and this Watson fellow, who, he was sure was no beta. But that was a matter for another time, right now he needed to get on top of this and fast.

“What about Cardiff?”

A roll of Sherlock’s eyes revealed he was losing patience. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

John and Lestrade exchanged looks but it was John who spoke this time. “It’s not obvious to me.”

“Dear God,” Sherlock shifted his eyes between the other two men. “What is it like in your funny little alpha brains?” 

Not caring that he’d just outed John to Lestrade, especially if they were so determined to form some allegiance of alphic ignorance he turned back to the body. “It must be so boring.”

“How can you not see?” He gestured at the corpse. “Her coat: it’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time.

“Under her coat collar is damp, too. She’s turned it up against the wind. She’s got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it’s dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella.

“We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can’t have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried.”

Retrieving his phone from his pocket, Sherlock flashed a screen at them, showing a webpage displaying the day’s regional weather. “So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?

“Cardiff.”

“That’s fantastic!”

The enthusiasm in John’s voice stunned Sherlock, particularly since he’d just called him a “stupid alpha” more or less. Obviously, Lestrade held similar sentiments, given the disapproving way he was eying John. 

Despite his better instincts to just leave it, Sherlock felt an odd surge of protectiveness towards his new sponsee. He couldn’t help but lean in and whisper.

“Do you know that you are doing that out loud?”

John dropped his head again after his eyes flashed over towards the sergeant. “Sorry. I’ll shut up.” His cheeks heated with embarrassment, but he could hardly help it. Just like he’s said in the car, the way Sherlock saw things, how he put them together was simply brilliant. 

As much as it would have been prudent for Sherlock to encourage the promised silence, John’s words of praise turned something in his chest molten and glowing and he found himself saying just the opposite.

“No… No,  it’s ... fine.”

Under different circumstances Lestrade would have found great amusement watching what appeared to be some horribly awkward courtship dance between Sherlock and his counterfeit beta, but right now he couldn’t afford the luxury.

“Why do you keep saying _suitcase_?”

Pulling his attention away from the effects of John’s praise and back to the body, Sherlock began casing the room.

For once, Lestrade’s question was excellent. “Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who ‘Rachel’ is.”

“She was writing ‘Rachel’?” Dark eyes shifted to the letters etched into the floor, Lestrade’s mind going to Anderson’s earlier theory.

 _“_ No, she was leaving an angry note in German!” Sherlock snapped. 

_God, the mental mechanics of alpha’s (well, perhaps excluding John on occasion) were so tiresome!_

“Of course she was writing Rachel!  It can’t be any other word. The question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

“How do you know she had a suitcase?”

John sympathized with the weariness in the sergeant’s voice as he returned to the issue of the case. Watching Sherlock’s mind spin its amazing circuits was just as exhausting as it was exhilarating.

“Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left.” Pointing down to the body, Sherlock gestured to Wilson’s tights and the almost imperceptible, small, black flecks on the lower part of her right leg.

“She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. You don’t get that splash pattern any other way.” 

While he continued to ignore Lestrade’s stunned gaze, Sherlock meanwhile, basked in John’s.

“Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.”

Sherlock dipped back down to have another look at Wilson’s legs, just in case he’d overlooked something obvious. He was not about to have another “Harry Watson” incident with this case.

“Now, where is it? What have you done with it?”

From his spot on the sidelines, John wondered for a moment if Sherlock was addressing the body. He was slightly disturbed to find already he wouldn’t have put it past him to do so.

“There wasn’t a case.”

“Say that again.”

“There wasn’t a case.” The same weary resignation was repeated as well as the phrase. Unsure with the way Sherlock was staring at him, whether his consulting pain in the backside had actually comprehended his words yet, Lestrade repeated it one more time. “There was never any suitcase.”

The long-limbed frenzy that Sherlock exploded into, startled John. In an instant he was limping after Lestrade out onto the landing, only to find Sherlock already halfway down the staircase, shouting at every officer he encountered about the missing suitcase.

Leaning over the bannister Lestrade called out in his alpha voice, “Sherlock, there was no case!

John watched as this stopped the omega, but only for an instant. Within moments Sherlock was moving down the stairs, shouting back up as he descended.

“But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves! There are clear signs!

“Even you lot couldn’t miss them!”

The next few minutes dissolved into a confusing shouting match between Sherlock and Lestrade. John watched from his place on the landing. Even trying to interject once or twice himself, hoping to calm Sherlock down. 

His gut twisted as his sponsor railed about cases, and mistakes and then got giddy about serial killers and something else that apparently everyone else was too dull to see. His new omega truly looked mad, yelling orders to find “Rachel,” face all lit up like Christmas with declarations of “Pink!”

It all happened so fast, it didn’t hit John until after Sherlock disappeared that he’d been left standing on the landing next to Lestrade and half a dozen other now-stirred alphas.

John felt Lestrade’s eyes on him.

“So, Watson, you’re an alpha then.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement.

 _So much for Sherlock taking the blame for the deception_. Heart thundering in his chest, John swallowed hard and nodded.

“Sherlock’s?”

John nodded again.

“Since?”

“What time is it now?”

Once Lestrade realized John wasn’t being cheeky and the question was earnest, he pulled out his phone and flashed it at him.

“Less than three hours.”

Lestrade’s brow dipped at this. “I wager it seems like a hell of alot longer than that…”

This response caught John off guard. “Erm… yes, but it certainly hasn’t been boring.”

“You really a doctor then?”

Given that he’d been playing beta, it was a perfectly reasonable question, but John couldn’t quite keep the extra snap out of his voice.“Yes. Bart’s. Certified surgeon, Career Military… Medical.”

Lestrade held up a hand, open-palmed, making it clear the spirit of his inquiry was friendly, or at least as friendly as John could expect, given that he was essentially now an apprehended criminal. 

Once again Lestrade’s words took him aback. “Surgeon… That’s no small feat. Good for you.”

There was something in those dark eyes that John couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Then Lestrade flashed him a tight smile that held a little too much sorrow at its edges and John suddenly wondered if the other alpha might not have been holding some hopes Sherlock might have sponsored him at some point. Given what Lestrade did, and knowing only slightly a little more now what Sherlock did as well, it rather made sense to him.

“Don’t suppose you’d mind telling me where your collar’s gotten to, eh, Watson?” The question quickly thrust John back to the moment.

John’s throat was suddenly so dry it was hard to get his words out. “Downstairs, coat pocket.”

Mercifully, any fears sparked that, if Lestrade had been hoping for an arrangement with his sponsor, the other alpha might be inclined to deal with him even more harshly, were quickly set to rest the next time the sergeant spoke.

“Given who your sponsor is; I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt this time and blame it on Sherlock. But don’t show up at another of my sites without it. Got it?”

John flushed, feeling like a child who’d just been reprimanded by a patient parent. Not that he’d had much experience with that. Even so, he appreciated that Lestrade had kept his voice quiet as he’d said this, so that the other alpha’s milling around hadn’t heard.

“Right.”

John nodded and made to move off, hoping this meant he was really free to go.

Something slightly guilty flickered across Lestrade’s expressive face. “Uh, Watson… Wait until you get past Donovan before you put it on. She’s not so understanding as I am.” 

Again, John nodded. Once more he started to go but only managed a single limping step when Lestrade carefully caught his arm and dropped his voice lower.

“One more word…”

John stopped and waited. Since Lestrade was giving him his freedom, the least he could do was give the man his attention in return. 

"If you’re going to try and catch up with him, you should put that collar on as soon as you’re free of this scene. That neutralizer is spotty and I don’t want to return to the station and find you in one of my tanks… Okay.”

It surprised John to see genuine concern in Lestrade’s eyes.

“Thank you. Sergeant.”

This time it was Lestrade who nodded.

“Let’s get on with it!” Lestrade shouted in his alpha voice, as he ambled off, back to his team.

It was clear the command the sergeant had as a flurry of new movement erupted around John. Feeling even more dislocated now, he began to make his way carefully down the stairs.

His mind raced to Lestrade’s “catching up” comment and he wondered if indeed Sherlock had just left him. The ache in his leg flared fiercer. Of course it didn’t help that he was jostled by two more of the Yard’s team racing up the stairway.

Recognizing them as beta’s, John shrunk himself to the side. Apparently, at the moment, the neutralizer was holding again because one even muttered a clipped apology.

The rest of the climb down was a long descent. As he stripped out of the coveralls and into his coat on the main floor, John saw no sign of his sponsor. Out the door and back on the street it was the same. 

_Right then…_

Heading back to where he and Sherlock entered the site, John saw the DI had resumed her watch at the edge of the scene.

 If she was pregnant, as Sherlock had deduced, that she was even able to be that close to such alphic activity said a great deal about her determination. Historically most omega’s couldn’t bear the scent of any alpha but their seeder for about a month after conception without getting physically ill.

OBG stuff was a bit out of his realm, but John knew the latest studies said it had to do with out of date bonding behaviors and fetal development. While there were medications to help with this, it was obvious the DI hadn’t known to take them. So, even if his sponsor didn’t get along with her, his medical mind couldn’t help but admire her strength. 

Unfortunately, Donovan caught him looking at her and took his expression as a challenge.

“He’s gone.”

John prayed that the blockers would hold on just a little longer and tried to pretend her confirmation of his new sponsor’s disappearance didn’t bother him at all.

“Who? Sherlock Holmes?”

Leaning against a cruiser she eyed him anew. “Yeah, he just took off. He does that, you know.”

John dropped his eyes away from hers. He reminded himself whatever dynamic she thought he was; she wasn’t apt to like him, her private life being so abruptly revealed to a stranger as Sherlock had done.

“Is he coming back?”

“Didn’t look like it.” There was no doubting the quiet undercurrent of relief in her voice.

“Right.”

John’s eyes scanned the street beyond the tape. It was ridiculous how apprehensive he felt. As Sherlock had said just a few hours earlier, he’d navigated a war zone, so London shouldn’t be any feat.  

“Right ... Yes.”

But he’d just been in a burnt out building with a body… so, really not so different. Only here, his alpha status carried quite differently. And John suddenly realized too, that it’d been literally years since he’d been out in the city without a handler of some sort.

He wasn’t conscious of the gesture until the fingers of his right hand lightly touched his throat. He dropped his hand away quickly when he realized what he was doing. His left hand began to tremor then until he put it in his pocket and his fingers brushed his collar.

As much as he hated himself for it, John turned back to the DI.

“Sorry, where am I?”

“Brixton.”

If he’d known at all where Brixton was exactly, this curt reply might have helped. But it didn’t. 

And if he was more familiar with Harry’s phone, he could have pulled something up to go by, but as it was, he’s just barely gotten the hang of texting.

“Right. Er, do you know where I could get a cab? It’s just, er ... Well ...

_I’m an idiot, institutionalized alpha and I’ve lost my sponsor._

“Uh… My leg.”

If it was good for nothing else and he hated to use it like this, his damn leg at least tended to garner him useful omega sympathy on occasion. Unfortunately, with the DI, it didn’t quite work as well as he hoped.  

“Try the main road,” was all she offered before she stepped over and lifted the tape for him, something John was quite sure could have reasonably managed on his own.

Rather than subject himself to any further humiliation by admitting he had no idea where the next “main” road even was, he simply ducked under the tape. Careful to move by quickly when he noted Donovan sniffing.

“Thanks.”

He’d only gone two limping steps when Donovan called after him, “But you’re not his friend.”

Heart pounding he turned back to the omega DI. Rather than answer, John gripped his cane tighter and shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably.

“He doesn’t have friends.” Head cocked slightly to the side, Donovan squinted at him, as though she couldn’t quite see him clearly, but wanted to. “So who are you?”

He didn’t want to lie to Donovan, especially not if he was going to see her again someday…

_Which might be likely?_

John wished mightily he’d decided to go the opposite direction when he’d left the abandoned building. He decided on an acceptable truth.

“I’m ... I’m nobody. I just met him.”

For some reason this seemed to satisfy the DI.

“Okay.”

She dropped the tape and took a slight step back from the barrier. “Let me offer you a bit of advice then... Stay away from that guy.”

She said this with such conviction John’s curiosity overcame his apprehension.

“Why?”

“You know why he’s here?” Donovan tipped her dark head back towards the building. “He’s not paid or anything.” 

That rather shocked John. Given Sherlock’s nest and the way he presented himself, he’d hardly imagined his sponsor was running around London hanging around corpses for free.

It was almost as if Donovan read his mind. “Yeah…”  She nodded. “He just does it cause he likes it.

“He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough.

“One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.”

John’s mind flashed back to Sherlock’s disclosure about Mrs. Hudson’s husband, then to the skull on the mantle. He tipped his head slightly to the side, surprised that even with these things he didn’t feel entirely convinced.

“And why would he do that?”

“Because he’s a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored.” Before Donovan could elaborate further, Lestrade popped out of the entrance of the building.

“Inspector!”

Donovan turned her back on John as she watched the sergeant approach her; she didn’t look back as she reiterated her first warning.

“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”

As soon as she looked away, John hobbled off down the street. He didn’t really want to hang around and watched Lestrade get dressed down, which he’d no doubt was going to be at least part of the sergeant and the DI’s next interaction.

Once he was around the corner, out of sight of the crime scene chaos, John pulled off to the side of the pavement. Making sure the street was quiet; he took out his collar and snapped it back around his throat. 

As he did, he wondered if this was one of those “dire circumstances” Sherlock had alluded to. Regardless, he certainly hadn’t expected to find himself in one the first night of his sponsorship.

Collar secured, it annoyed John by how much more settled he suddenly felt.

He tried to ignore this and focus instead on finding a taxi stand. He hoped that given the subtlety of his collar and the lingering blockers, he’d be able to get a cab back to Baker St. Otherwise, he’d be looking for an alpha accepting bus and these stopped running by eleven.

_No stand, on this block. Just a telephone box._

No sooner had he glanced at the box than the phone started ringing.

In this age of mobiles and given the hour, it struck John as curious. A fatal flaw of his, he was almost moved to answer it. Glancing down at his watch, however, when he saw the time, he knew he’d better get a move on. Otherwise, there was no way,  even if his leg had been fit, that he’d be able to make it back to 221B walking before the official alpha curfew started.

He set off again at a quicker pace now. Hoping that his omega sponsor knew how to find his way home better than he did, John was so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the phone, now behind him, stop ringing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, "Thank you for reading!" And you reviewers are the bee's knees! Truly.


	9. MIA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, This was becoming so long, I decided to divide it into two parts. I almost have the second part done and since I don't have to work tonight... If you're very good... You just might get two chapters in a day.
> 
> Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Even if you're not good, I'll likely post the other half as soon as it's done because I am compulsive like that.

* * *

Away from all the police activity and the scents swirling around the scene, the further down the darkened street John slipped, the more pensive he became. Before he’d let him go, Lestrade had mentioned “catching up” to his sponsor.

Once outside, however, it hadn’t taken John more than a few moments to realize this would be all but impossible: he had absolutely no idea where Sherlock had run off to. 

Since he couldn’t find his omega, the best course of action seemed to return to Baker St. and hope that Sherlock showed up there eventually.

Growling under his breath, John pulled his coat tighter as a light mist began to fall. Up the road ahead he saw flashes of headlights; sharp ears registered the sounds of heavy traffic.

As he limped on, John struggled with his stirred emotions. He couldn’t decide if he was disappointed (not “hurt,” he told himself) or just pissed with how his omega had abandoned him. Not that as an alpha he really had the right to be either.

His musings were brought to an abrupt halt, when a step down onto an uneven bit of the pavement shot pain up his bad leg that left him gasping.

_Of course, if you were fit enough to keep up with your omega, he couldn’t have left you now, could he of._

John shook his head trying to dislodge the unwanted voice. It sounded too much like his perpetually unhappy beta step-father’s. Instead of falling silent, however, his internal critic continued.

_This time of night, who knows what kind of trouble he’ll get into. If you were any kind of alpha you’d be there to look out for him._

Within John’s chest worry flared. The strength of it surprised him, especially since it had been made obvious his sponsor was more than capable on his own. He tried to push these protective stirrings aside, only to find them fixed. 

With the delayed effectiveness of his new suppressants and the fact his sponsor’s scent had appealed to him from the outset when he was off meds, his medical mind surmised his body had already kicked into some sort of pre-bonding state.

“Damn hormones,” John grumbled.

This early, however, it shouldn’t be difficult to break these budding ties if he wanted to. A new small voice inside his head whispered he didn’t really have to go back to Sherlock’s. In fact, if his sponsor was the psychopath that Donovan asserted, to do so would be quite unwise.

John sighed, wishing he could believe the DI, but he couldn’t.

For a detective she didn’t seem particularly observant. Lestrade on the other hand, struck him as a weary but wise man, who undoubtedly saw something beyond madness in Sherlock Holmes. Likewise, there was clearly trust and familial feelings on the part of Mrs. Hudson. And one didn’t need to be a great deducer to see his sponsor fully returned his den mother’s affections.

_So, not psychopathic then..._

_Still…_

Once again, John reached up to brush the soft leather encircling his neck. Despite the fact he’d just put it on, reaching around, he pressed his fingertip to the clasp. There was a “click” and the latch fell open; just as Sherlock had said it would. The sensation left John giddy: he hadn’t truly believed him before this instant. 

His eyes darted down a side street. Unconsciously, John adjusted the neck of his shirt, feeling his loose collar disappear from view. He was reminded that he was truly on his own at the moment.

Though he might not get far, this meant he really could run if he wanted. No collar, his army chip, embedded but not active. John knew there were underground alpha networks that would pull a chip. With his stature and enough suppressants he could go someplace else, pass himself off as a beta.

His lingering fingers traced over the open collar’s clasp. Not even an hour into his new sponsorship and Sherlock had done something that indicated such trust. Remembering the man’s deductions, John wondered if there was something else the omega had seen in him.

_Like what a truly giant idiot I am._

John frowned, knowing he’d reached his decision and snapped the catch back, latching it. 

_Right. Back to Baker St. then._

Now that he’d clarified his mission, he was much more settled. Drawing up to what was likely the main road the DI had mentioned, John slipped into a more military mindset. Keen blue eyes took in his surroundings with far greater awareness than the civilians milling around him.

Climbing up on the curb, from a crossed street, another telephone box began to chime. Seeing a taxi stopped ahead, John kept his walk purposeful and ignored the ringing. He raised his hand in hail.

“Taxi!”

The window rolled down. The driver was about to ask, “Where to?” Until a damp breeze stirred, carrying John’s scent with it. A look of confusion passed over the cab driver’s face. He sniffed deeply.

John could tell by the beta’s expression the light rain had further diminished the effect of the already failing neutralizer. He dropped his eyes and made his tone deferential as possible.

“Please, Sir. I need a ride. I am trying to get back home to my sponsor before curfew.”

Before he’d even got the sentence out, the window to the cab rolled up and the taxi pulled quickly from the curb.

Cursing under his breath, John turned away from the street. He stopped when the door to the restaurant he stood in front of opened and the aroma of seasoned meat wafted out. Not having eaten anything since breakfast, his stomach rumbled loudly.

“Shut it, you…” There were more important tasks at hand right now.

John’s stomach didn’t agree with him and obstinately growled again. The sound, however, was drowned out by the sudden ringing of the phone visible just inside the Chicken Cottage’s window.

Dismissing both his stomach and the phone, looking away from the window, further down the block John saw a bus stop. People were queued up in two distinct groups: one, omega and beta shoppers and business people, the other, mostly alpha workers.

Seeing a bus approaching from further up the road, John sharply stepped out, quickening his stride as much as his leg would allow. Focused on the bus, he barely registered that the Chicken Cottage’s phone stopped ringing as soon as one of its workers reached for it.

Heart beating fast, he cautiously wove his way through the crowded sidewalk. He stayed to the edge of the walk, kept his head down, and was careful not to accidentally brush against any omega or beta pedestrians. Up ahead the bus trundled towards the stop; but he thought he could still make it. He was about 10 meters away when a collective shout went up, the noise halting him in his tracks.

John watched, no less confused than the rest of the gathered commuters when the bus, whose sign indicated it should have stopped there, swerved into another lane and continued on without pause. Seeing the faces of the passengers inside the vehicle as it sped past, it was obvious they were just as surprised as those left standing on the pavement.

 _That was odd._ Of course, it kind of fit with the overall strangeness of his day. John shook his head. _I’ll just catch the next one then. Shouldn’t be too long._

Leg fiercely aching, he slowed his stride now that he had time. On his right, another telephone box suddenly rang off. He pulled up staring at it. That’s the third ringing box tonight.

This was getting to be a little too ridiculous to be coincidence. After another few moments’ consideration, the phone not ceasing its ringing, John warily entered the box and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” 

While he had a few ideas of what he might hear, none of them even remotely matched the question posed by the posh accent spilling out of the earpiece.

“There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?”

If the authority in the low male voice wasn’t enough to press panic’s blade to John’s low belly, the words certainly were. He did his best to keep this out of his voice, however.

“Who’s this? Who’s speaking?”

Rather than answer his questions, the voice repeated its own. “Do you see the camera, alpha Watson?”

If the initial question hadn’t been distressing enough, hearing his name and his dynamic only made it worse. Looking through the box’s glass panes, it was easy for John to locate the CCTV camera high up on the wall of the indicated building.

John was seized with the terrible possibility that this might be alpha control. Had there been a CCTV camera on the street outside the crime scene where he’d re-donned his collar?

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Watch.”

The urge to flee pulsed through John’s veins. If his leg had been sound he might have attempted it. As it was, in his current circumstances, though he didn’t want to, following the order seemed the wisest thing to do.

His eyes tracked the camera as it swung away from the box.

“There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?”

It was easier to follow the order this time. It was also amazing how few sentences it had taken for John to decide he hated the man on the other end of the line. Trying to sound as unimpressed as possible, he hummed his assent as he watched the second camera also turn a blind eye to him.

“And finally, at the top of the building on your right.”

A third camera, the one most obviously fixed on the box, turned away too. The first thought that struck John upon seeing this was, whatever happened to him now would be literally “off the record” with no visual documentation. The second was that this was a lot of effort to go to for one, crippled, wayward alpha.

_So, not alpha control then._

John tried to buy more time.“How are you doing this?”

Even as he asked, his mind raced back through every one he’d worked with in the military, all the missions he’d gone on. To control the CCTV circuits like this indicated no small level of power.

“Get into the car, alpha Watson.”

An icy hand gripped John’s heart when a black sedan rolled up to the curb and stopped alongside him. He watched the tall, youngish, alpha male driver exit the car to open the back passenger door.

“I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.” 

With these crisp words the line went dead. John shook his head, stunned as he stared at the phone in his hand.

The only thing clear to him was that he was royally fucked and with absolutely no real understanding as to why. Giddy with dread, John’s mind reminded him that only two days ago he’d sat in his appointed counselor’s office and all but complained that nothing ever happened to him.

_Can’t say that now, Watson. Can you?_

Leaving the telephone box and climbing into the sedan, John found himself strangely thinking about his sponsor. Annoyed as he may have been with him earlier, right now he hoped Sherlock’s evening, since they’d parted, was proving far less eventful.

* * *

While he’d found many interesting things in the bins he’d gone through already (amazing really how many crimes the city missed and how much evidence people just threw out), so far Sherlock’s search had not yielded the results he hoped for. 

It crossed Sherlock’s mind that if John had been with him, they might have covered twice as much ground by now. Unfortunately, this conjecture was accompanied by an uncomfortable twang beneath his breastbone, and the follow up thought it might have been just the littlest bit _not good_ for him to have left his new alpha at the crime scene as he had. Particularly, since he was quite sure Lestrade, dull as he was, had seen through their little ruse even before he’d declared it himself.

Of course, knowing what a soft heart lay beneath the sergeant’s broad alpha chest, Sherlock highly doubted Lestrade would actually detain John.

_Sally on the other hand..._

Sherlock ducked into yet another dim alley, grateful that the night had graced him with such a luminous moon. 

Of course the DI wouldn’t figure it out, and if she did, she’d likely be too caught up in all the mental tumult of her newly discovered pregnancy to do anything about it.

Though he told himself this, Sherlock didn’t feel nearly as confident as he hoped to: Sally didn’t like him (probably hated him quite fiercely at the moment, in fact), and if she knew John was his, he would be foolish not to expect her to use the alpha against him.

_John’s fine… He’s a soldier… And if he can’t take care of himself, I can’t really be bothered to keep him around…_

Again there was that nagging and uncomfortable pressure in his chest. Sherlock could hear Mycroft’s voice in his head scolding in that unbearable tone of his that, not only had he sponsored John, but that he’d assured him before they went out that he’d take responsibility for him and their little charade.

_Annoying…_

As with most things Mycroft, real or imaginary, Sherlock immediately deleted this. Along with all the other ridiculous thoughts he’d just had.

_I’ll go home. John will be there waiting. We’ll look at the case together. And that will be that._

Mind cleared of unnecessary encumbrances at last, his his chest remained perturbedly tight. Sherlock frowned at this but then, the sensation was overridden by a pulse of adrenaline when he noted a skip draped in blue tarps.

_Doubly concealed… and doubly enticing for someone panicked and wanting to hide something._

_Perfect._

A quick dive under, and less than a minute later Sherlock emerged, prize in hand. Normally he’d have been content to bask alone in his triumph, tonight, however, for some reason this little victory felt slightly hollow .

Heading out of the alley, evidence in tow, much as he tried to push it aside, his mind kept returning to how John’s face would have looked if he’d been there for the discovery. What descriptor might he have used for his cleverness… Would he have merited another “fantastic” or maybe an “amazing,” said in those wonderful tones?

Catching himself in these musings, Sherlock snorted disgustedly, appalled at the realization he’d been so readily sucked in by just the barest bit of alphic praise. 

_Ridiculous omega biology._

The fumes from this ire coiled in him all the way back on the main street. Here, Sherlock hailed a taxi, which stopped for him immediately.

“Nice bag” the cabby smirked as Sherlock climbed into the backseat, pulling the case behind him. “Complements your coat.”

Sherlock flashed the man a barely there smile. “Pink’s in this season.”

* * *

In the backseat of another car, John’s initial fear lingered but it had subsided considerably. In fact, it had ebbed enough that a new emotion was taking its place: annoyance. John shifted in his seat as the seed of irritation within him bloomed. 

Though there wasn’t one present, the car smelled cloyingly of a ripe, male omega. However, it was remarkably unstirring. In fact, there was something about the omega’s scent that kept bringing John’s mind back to Sherlock, but not in a good way. It was as if this omega had taken all the enticing bits of the consulting detective’s aroma and twisted them together with a dose of strong vinegar.

John’s nose crinkled and he fought not to sneeze. It didn’t help any that on top of the sour omega’s smell was the heavy scent of a barely suppressed alpha.

Said alpha was currently sitting beside him. After all the cloak and dagger shit in the phone box, John had climbed into the sedan expecting something out of an omegan Jane Bond movie. What he got instead was a smartly dressed, attractive alpha female, who hadn’t even acknowledged him and had instead, spent the last fifteen minutes not even _pointedly_ but just plain ignoring him him as she thumbed away at her BlackBerry.

If he was being driven to his death, though he knew he couldn’t really expect any alphic solidarity, the least his kidnapper could do was show a polite level of interest in him.

“Hello.”

His greeting pulled a pair of large eyes upwards at last.

“Hi.” Salutation returned, the lady alpha dropped her eyes back to her device.

“Nice collar. Your omega must be important. Eh?” John kept his voice light. He’d had some good luck with lady alphas in the service. He hoped that with a little charm he might be able to learn something more about his abductor.

The lady alpha’s gaze flickered over at him for the merest of moments. “Nice try.” Her tone dangled somewhere between bored and amused; the words accompanied by a fleeting and over-bright smile.

John knew too well a flash of that many teeth, friendly as it might look to other dynamics was a socially-sanctioned alphic warning. Unfortunately, he had never been the best at heeding these things. _In for a penny, in for a pound_ had always been more his M.O.

“What’s your name, then?”

Even if she didn’t look back up at him again, John considered it a victory when the other alpha’s flying thumbs stilled a moment, hovering over the blackberry’s keys before she answered.

“Er ... Anthea”

“Is that your real name?”

There was that smile again, though she didn’t bother to look at him.

“No.”

Deciding not to ask if that was just for this particular abduction, or if the woman’s omega had changed her name when he’d gotten her, John simply nodded at this. It wasn’t that uncommon for a sponsor to rename an adopted alpha if the mood struck. And the way their scents were layered it was obvious she belonged to the absent omega.

“I’m John.”

This at least earned him a sigh. “Yes. I know.”

John wondered why she sounded so put out. After all he was the one who’d been kidnapped.

“Any point in asking where I’m going?”

Again large eyes glanced up at him. “None at all… John.”

There was a second smile, this time without so many teeth. However, the way the “not’ Anthea alpha said his name, let John know they’d reached the end of this and any further conversation.

Lulled by the silent truce with the “not” Anthea alpha, John felt his pulse climb again as the car traveled deeper into an industrial district. His anxiety spiked as the rolling door of a warehouse rolled up ahead and the sedan quietly slipped into it.

His unease was obvious, strong enough now that his scent filled the backseat, drowning the that of the absent omega and John’s attendant. Though she didn’t say anything, it gave him just a bit of satisfaction to watch “not” Anthea’s nostrils flare, no doubt upset that her omega’s mobile den was being sullied. He couldn’t help wonder but how she’d rectify that one he’d been gotten rid of.

Car pulled to a stop, the driver got out. A moment later the door opened and John was ushered into the cold, damp of the quiet warehouse.

Before the car, spotlit by its headlights, a tall man stood. John caught the man’s scent easily, as he was clearly unsuppressed. It was the omega the car belonged to. Allowing his scent to be so obvious was a blatant show of omega supremacy. But just as within the car, rather than be stirred by the man’s odor, John only found it irritating. 

Not to mention the suit and the theatrical way the omega leaned upon his umbrella: it made him look like quite the dandy. John had to bite back a snort. The umbrella was ridiculously large and he immediately read it as a sign of omegan compensation.

It didn’t matter to him how much polite society raved about the beauty and “good taste” of a bloke having the omegan ideal of a small, slim penis, John had always secretly believed there wasn’t a man out there that wouldn’t rather have a stout, long alpha cock. And this fellow’s brandished brolly, once again, just confirmed this to him. 

Dark humor blooming inside along with his terror, John told himself to remember this when the omega ordered him beaten bloody. Squaring his shoulders and damning his limp simultaneously, he stepped forward. He found himself leaning heavily on his cane, his leg muscles spasming in anticipatory pain.

“Have a seat, John.”

The omega gestured with the point of his umbrella to an inquisitor's chair, straight-backed and armless.

John met the omega’s eyes and it was obvious from how the man stared at him, he expected him to defer. He inhaled the slick confidence the omega was exuding, but rather than make him want to behave, to his inner alpha it was like throwing gasoline on a campfire.

* * *

Sherlock stepped from the cab at Baker St. Drawing to the door he realized he’d forgotten his key again. 

_Must remember to get one made for John too._

The barest flash of guilt shot through him at Mrs. Hudson having to let someone into the flat so late for the second time that night. Though by now, he thought, after six months, the older omega should have been used to it.

It took a few minutes after his sharp rap before familiar shuffling was heard. The black door opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson be-robed, her hair reminiscent of Medusa with all its curlers.

“Forgot your key again, Dear?” Mrs. Hudson sniffed but didn’t offer the usual scenting, it would be improper in her current state of dishabille. She smiled at Sherlock’s potent, case-happy smell, however. “I see you had a good evening.”

Sherlock smiled back. “Serial killer… reasonably bright.”

“Oh… that sounds exciting.”

Then the landlady’s eyes fell on the pink case at his side. Her eyes widened a bit. Her expression grew even more pleased.

“I see you got the rest of your Doctor’s things. That’s lovely, Sherlock. I didn’t see how such an accomplished alpha would have just that one pack. He’ll settle in easier with his all his belongings to scatter about. Mark his territory and all that.

"Though I’ll admit, I didn’t really see pink as being the Doctor’s color. One never can tell these days though, can they? All that sensitivity training they make alphas go through and such… Not like my day... It’s bound to leave a mark somewhere.”

Sherlock was fighting hard not to roll his eyes at Mrs. Hudson’s misinformed babble. He was about to tell her how ridiculous it was to think the pink case was John’s, but then she said something that immediately had his eyes fixed hard upon her.

“And is your alpha coming along, Sherlock?”

She peered around his shoulder as though she expected to see John pop through the open door at any moment. “I hope you didn’t leave him too far behind you.

"I know it might be hard for you, Dear, but you really should slow down a bit, let your alpha keep up. That bad leg of his… Well, you know, alpha egos are really so tender. Mine used to…”

“Wait!”

Mrs. Hudson stopped short in her ramble at Sherlock’s exclamation.

“You mean John’s not here?”

“No, Dear. I haven’t seen your Doctor since the two of you left. Oh, what a picture you made… Just like a couple of school boys.

"I could see he was so excited you were taking him out...” This time, it was Mrs. Hudson who cut herself off. Her expression became despairing.

“Oh, Sherlock… Please tell me you haven’t lost your poor Doctor already.” Worried eyes shot to the clock on the entryway wall. “There will be curfew coming soon…”

Sherlock felt his cheeks pinks at the reprimand, but this was nothing compared to the unaccountable sense of panic that suddenly filled him.

“You must be mistaken. He’s snuck in somehow.”

Leaving Mrs. Hudson at the foot of the stairs, he dashed up to the flat, case in hand. Throwing the door open, his cluttered front room, sans John greeted him.

Sherlock stepped to the side, his eyes blinking in disbelief. He pulled a big draught of air in through his nose.

Mrs. Hudson was right.

There was the concentrated patch of John’s scent, where his pack sat still resting against the wall. The barest trace left on the chair where he’d sat. Other than that, it was obvious John was gone. 

Unconsciously Sherlock drew a hand to his chest. It slipped under his coat to massage his breastbone. Within the cage of his ribs a number of emotions fluttered wildly: worry, irritation…

_Betrayal._

Sherlock frowned at that last one. He'd been betrayed before, more than once in his life, in fact, but somehow Sherlock thought he'd become inured to the sting of it.

He didn't  like the surprise of discovering he was wrong. But it was more than this.

While they hardly knew each other… or more correctly, John hardly knew him: he’d deduced almost immediately that given John’s history, his loyalty to his abusive family, his dedication to duty through his time in the service, that there was little risk of his new alpha running away.

 _Something must have happened._  

His mind went first to Donovan, but he dismissed that immediately. If the DI had detained John, Lestrade would have texted him by now.

“Oh, Sherlock...” Having followed him up the stairs Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, her attention flitting between his stunned expression and the empty flat.

“Nonsense, Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock wished he felt as confident as his voice sounded. “John will be along shortly. If you don’t mind, just leave the street door unlocked. I’ll keep an ear out for him. In the meantime, you should get to bed.”

Mrs. Hudson acquiesced, but she left shaking her head and mumbling about “shelter shock,” and getting “off on a good foot.”

Sherlock was only too happy to close the door behind her.

Rather than react immediately to his annoying instincts, Sherlock slowly took his coat and scarf off. He took the case into the kitchen and set it up on a chair there. Once opened, he made a cursory glance through Jennifer Wilson’s possessions. His mind, however, wasn’t cooperating, continually flitting back to the new case of his missing alpha.

“Damn it!”

Sherlock growled as he snapped the lid of the pink case shut. He pulled out his mobile and began to search through it for John’s papers, knowing that the number for his hand-me-down mobile would be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for continuing to follow this story. When I began this fic, I had no intention of following the canon so closely. So, I hope that the shift through the ABO lens is enough to make up for the lack of originality in this piece. Still, playing with the actual series like this has become a guilty pleasure for me.
> 
> As always, my gratitude goes out you those of you kind enough to leave kudos or comments. They make my day and keep me writing.


	10. Timely Texts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah ha! Here's the rest of the chapter! Whoo Hoo!

 

* * *

John glared at the omega gazing upon him with such smirky superiority. He had dealt with this type before frequently among the army’s omega ranks and had, in fact,  taken more than one of them down.

Rather than drop his eyes as he should have, he held firm. “You know, I have actually got a phone of my own.”

Shooting a quick glance around the warehouse, even as he growled these words, John assessed options and exits. While he didn’t pull his mobile out for fear it might be read as aggression by any snipers hidden in the wings; he nodded down to his pocket.

Behind him, he heard another door of the sedan "click" open and imagined not-Anthea had just joined them. Despite this, he kept the alpha rumble in his voice.

“I mean, very clever and all that, but... you could of just phoned me." He repeated, making it clear he thought his kidnapper’s antics had been overzealous,“On my phone.”

After all, if the bastard could commandeer phone boxes and CCTVs, getting a cell listing would have hardly been an effort. John bypassed the chair and came to stand just a few feet from his abductor.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet.” The omega gave a flourished twirl of his umbrella to emphasize his words, “hence this place.”

The significance of the motion was not lost on John any more than the man’s too tight smile or his cold eyes.

“Your leg must be hurting you."

John was proven right in his assessment when the polish slipped from his host’s voice and the command in it  was made obvious.

“Sit down.”

Still reeling from hearing his sponsor’s name, it took John a moment to realize, not only didn’t surprise him, but it was oddly comforting, finding out that Sherlock was somehow tied to this.

 _Of course._ _Bloody, omega consulting troublemaker._

“I don’t want sit down.”

Without having more details, it was a dangerous line he was walking, he knew. But John knew too that there was a good likelihood once he sat down in that chair he might never rise again.

Blue omegan eyes narrowed and John found himself being hard stared at.

“You don’t seem very afraid. Nor do you seem particularly inclined to mind me.” Despite the intensity of the gaze, the omega tipped his head slightly to the side almost in question.

While he doubted if the man was aware he was doing it, John recognized the gesture for what it was, the twitch of omega instinct to alpha challenge. Powerful as this man might be, it was clear he felt the weight of it heavily.

The realization buoyed John. Unfortunately, it also made him reckless. “You don’t seem very frightening. And… _You’re_ not my omega.”

Half-expecting a whack with the umbrella for his insolence, John was surprised when he received a light chuckle instead.

“Ah, yes. The bravery of the alpha. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

Before John had the chance to snap back at the insult, the man continued on. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

Again, startled to hear his sponsor’s name, a protective spark flared in John's chest moving him to downplay their arrangement.

“I barely know him. I met him… Um… Yesterday." Just as with Lestrade, John was once more stunned by how little time had actually passed since he’d met the Holmes omega.

The man before him was less than impressed with his answer. “Mmm, and yet... Since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. At the rate you’re going, I suppose you’ll be wearing each other’s mate marks within the week?”

The fact that his abductor knew this only made John more uneasy. “Who are you?”

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock?” John wondered if one of Sherlock’s solved crimes had earned him the anger of some umbrella-wielding, omega mafia. “Why?

“I mean, I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

The omega in charge tipped his head up and sniffed lightly in disgust. John wasn’t sure if this was at his question, or if the man found his irritated scent offensive. He rather hoped it was both.

“You’ve met him.” The omega sniffed again. “How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

This seemed to be a theme emerging around Sherlock and relationships this evening. But it was clear to John that, even if this man wasn’t Sherlock’s “friend,” there was something going on between him and the consulting detective.

A furrow creased John’s brow and he was suddenly struck with the horrible thought that perhaps this man was a jilted lover. After all, Sherlock had informed him from the beginning that he wasn’t interested in him sexually. Maybe his sponsor was omega-exclusive like his sister, Harry. And it seemed fully possible one rich, crazy git, might attract another.

Had he just been pulled into some sordid omegan love triangle? Sherlock had said he’d gotten him to prove a point. This possibility, _not jealousy_ , John told himself, roused his curiosity.

“And what are you then? I mean, if you’re not Sherlock’s friend?”

“An enemy.” The omega smiled as he said this, but the expression in his eyes told John he thought he was stupid not to have already discerned.

“An enemy?”

If this man was attached to Sherlock, it was clear that his sponsor was into all kinds of crazy.

Really? _Who goes about abducting people off the street to make these kinds of declarations?_ John felt like he was trapped in some crap telly crime episode.

Unaware of these thoughts, the omega carried on, “In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his _arch-enemy_. He does love to be dramatic.”

John couldn’t hold back either his snort or his eyeroll at this point. “Well, thank God _you’re_ above all that.”

He received a mighty scowl from omega for this. Before the man could say anything, however, John’s phone pinged with a text alert. He had no idea who it was: only Harry and Stamford had his number and he didn’t expect for either of them to be calling.

Rather than ignore it, he dug into his jacket pocket to retrieve his phone and the message. It was a small dramatic of his own he was enacting, pointing out that a call, even in the most dire of situations, would have adequately gotten his attention.

 _How the hell did he get my number?_ A flush of anger and something else far more pleasant, but very confusing, filled John’s chest when he saw the text and who it was from.

_Baker Street._

_Come at once_

_if convenient._

_SH_

_Pompous omega ass. Leave me behind and then order me home._ Still, almost forgetting where he was, John was hard pressed not smile.

“I hope I’m not distracting you.”

There was no mistaking the annoyance in the abducting omega’s voice. John disregarded this, however.

_No, I just need to text my sponsor that I can’t come at his call because his arch-nemesis is holding me captive..._

He took his time before slipping his phone in his pocket and looking back up.

“Not distracting me at all.”

The blue gaze that met his was fiercely assessing. When the omega spoke next it was almost as if he’d been reading the text over John’s shoulder.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

“Well, since he’s sponsored me… I think it’s likely.” John’s tone slipped from sarcastic to severe within just a few syllables. “...But then, that’s really none of your business.”

“It could be.”

Ex- lover, crime villain, crazy: any or all, John was tired of dancing around now. Sherlock had summoned him and his alpha instincts to get back to his sponsor’s nest and make sure the man was alright prickled at him.

“No.  It really couldn’t.”

This drew a fresh frown from the omega. John tensed when the man reached into his jacket pocket; he relaxed only slightly when the smooth, long fingers withdrew not a gun, but a small bound notebook instead.

Flickering his eyes between John and the notebook, the omega ran a finger through the pages until he located what he wanted.

“I understand you volunteered as a medical heat-mate for your fellow soldiers. It seems you were quite popular, your dance card perpetually full.”

John’s eyes widened at this. While his reputation might have gotten passed round the ranks, that service was confidential, it shouldn’t even have been in his information in the Center’s file.

“Oh, now _Doctor_ , there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You can’t help it that you’re an alpha, governed by your baser drives. Now, I happen to know of a few very exclusive heat resorts that you’d do very well at. They’re non-coercive and natural, no alpha restraints. I bet you’d be quite happy at one of these. I could arrange it.”

“I have a sponsor,” John growled these words out through gritted teeth.

The omega shook his head and tutted. “Really? You’re saying 'no'? Surely you can’t imagine that Sherlock will ever let you touch him. He won’t, you know.  I would think that with your drives, you’ll eventually find that quite unsatisfactory.”

The muscle in John’s jaw clenched, but he remained silent.

“Still ‘no’? Well, it’s your knot… or not.”

The omega made his dirty pun, but the words were said quite primly. He dropped his eyes back down to the notebook again.

“Well if you do decide to remain with your sponsor at... Let me see… Two hundred and twenty-one, B, Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

John watched the man snap the notebook shut and return it to his pocket.

“Why?”

“Because you’re not a wealthy man, alpha Watson. And I know your type. It probably grates on you already that you have nothing to offer your omega owner.”

These words rung true to John, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed hearing them spoken. He was confused now. He had expected violence. Then he’d been offered a position at a upscale whore house and now the omega was offering him a bribe to stay with his sponsor.

It didn’t make sense and he couldn’t resolve what this fellow really wanted from him.

“In exchange for what?”

The question made the omega’s eyes light up. He was clearly pleased, thinking that they were at last getting somewhere. “Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?” John doubted with what little he’d learned that anything with Sherlock Holmes was likely to be that easy.

“I worry about him... _Constantly."_

It was hard for John to infer sincerity in these words. He was back to thinking, jilted lover/omega stalker.  He offered some insincerity of his own.

“That’s nice of you.”

If the omega heard his sarcasm it obviously didn’t register. He carried on as if John hadn’t spoken. “But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship.”

_Yep. Unbalanced ex-lover… Okay, then._

Saved by the bell, John’s phone pinged again. Knowing who it was likely to be, this time he didn’t hesitate but retrieved it immediately.  

_If inconvenient,_

_come anyway._

_SH_

Some little part of John puffed up that his absence was obviously affecting his new sponsor. He lifted his eyes.

“No.”

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

The surprise in the omega’s voice was also reflected in the arch of gingered brows. This response pleased John immensely: while he knew his personality was solid, he never liked to be found predictable.

“Don’t bother.” He’d find his own way to provide for his sponsor and this seemed a good start. A frown flitted across John’s face, however, when this answer made the omega chuckle.

“You’re _very_ loyal... _very_ quickly.”

“No. I’m not.” John had simply immediately decided there was no way in hell he would ever take anything from this rich, controlling, omega twat. “I’m just not interested.”

He wanted to sigh out loud when the man brought out that damnable notebook again. This was cut off immediately, however, when the omega began to read from his notes.

“ _Trust issues,_ it says here.”

Blood drained from John’s face and he paled. So what  if this stranger had gotten into his service records and found he’d studded himself?… Really, that was just physical. Fine. He could deal with that. But to hear Ella’s words…To  know the omega had looked at her notes: a place where he’d talked about bloody feelings…

“What’s that?” John straightened and turned his core to stone.

Rather than meet his angry glare, the omega kept his gaze focused on the pages. “Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

“Who says I trust him?” The blood rushed back to John’s cheeks, his fingers twitched remembering how they’d snapped his own collar closed that second time.

There was something akin to pity in the omega’s voice now and it rocked John harder than if he’d been punched. “You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily, alpha Watson. Though friends aren’t really an alpha’s prerogative now, are they?”

John knew if he had to spend one more minute listening to this man, smelling his particular satisfied stink,  he was going to lose control, do something stupid. Then he’d never make it back to Sherlock.

And then Sherlock would be left with this asshole lurking after him.

“Are we done?”

At last the omega looked back up at him. “You tell me.”

There was, however, that slight incline of head again and John knew the other had heard the steel in his tone. He stared hard but despite the head tip, his abductor gazed back unblinking now.

John realized the bigger victory here, and the stupider move, would be to  turn and just walk away;  which is exactly what he did. As he headed back towards the car he fought  to keep his limp to a minimum. He stopped short, however, when the omega called out after him.

“I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him. But I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.”

It wasn’t just that the omega was determined to have the last word, it was that he had to do it by pulling up more dirty little secrets from his notebook.  Turning around, John faced his abductor again. He couldn’t keep from flashing his teeth, the growl in his voice blatant.

“My what?”

“Show me.”  

If he wasn’t furious before, the way the words purred off the omega’s tongue was enough to push John over the edge. The fire of his anger burned even brighter when the man set the tip of his ridiculous umbrella on the floor and leaned on it again, every inch the manor lord waiting for his hound to heel.

John was not this man’s alpha dog and he’d already made this perfectly clear.

Despite the danger of what he was doing, he set himself. Lifting his left hand, he bent it at the elbow. He planted both feet, digging in, bad leg be damned, and straightened his spine.

Then he waited.

Realizing that John was not going to come to him, the omega rolled his eyes at this display of alphic defiance. He hooked the handle of his umbrella over his arm and strolled over reaching out easily to grasp John’s hand.

Before fingers met flesh, the hand was pulled sharply back. John had endured enough unwanted touch recently, but more than this, he didn’t want the omega’s scent on his skin.

“Don’t.”

Upset with the slight note of panic that had infiltrated his growl; John clenched his jaw. From beneath his light brows the omega looked up at him; expression exasperated and slightly amused. Reluctantly, John lowered his hand. He held it out flat with the palm down, though his furious scent made it clear he would not endure being touched for long.

Soft fingers took up his hand and turned it over. “Remarkable.” the omega murmured.

John snatched his hand away with a snarl. “What is?”

Seeming to realize he’d at last pushed his abducted alpha to the limit, the omega turned and ambled a few steps away before speaking again.

“Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.” John held his breath when the omega turned around again and ice blue eyes met his own, searching. “You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

John wasn’t going to talk battlefields with a man whose own touch revealed he’d never done a hard day’s labor in his life. Instead he gritted out, “What’s wrong with my hand?” though he already knew.

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand.”

John bit his tongue, but his head nodded anyways.

There was that smirk again on the omega’s face, the one that left him wanting to take a swing at him.  Thankfully the omega kept his distance.

“Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service.”

Hearing again that this man had accessed Ella notes, John had to shift his gaze. He couldn’t bear to look at the omega now, he fixed his eyes off in the distance just as he had in the service when he was trying not to throttle his omega superiors.

Still, he couldn’t stop the twitching of his jaw muscles. Finally he had to speak. “Who the hell are you? How do you know that?” His eyes flickered over to the omega for the barest of moments.

It was enough though to see the self-satisfied grin on the other man’s face.

“I know she requested follow ups, but to see her again would only be doing yourself a disservice. No… she’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady.”

The truth of this stung John like a slap. His eyes dropped down automatically. At his side, his left hand flexed sure and tremor-free. That this annoying prat of an omega was the source of this  realization only made John more furious.

Despite this, the omega moved closer again. “You’re not haunted by the war, alpha Watson... You _miss_ it.”

The omega leaned even further in and John lifted his eyes feeling soft breath on the skin of his cheek.

“Welcome back.”

The words were whispered soft as a kiss. Stunned, John watched the omega step back. The man began to walk off, casually twirling his umbrella as though leisurely strolling a rose garden, not disappearing into the shadows of a dank warehouse.

“Time to choose a side, Alpha.”

When the omega slipped from view, John shuffled his feet realizing how stiffly he’d been holding himself. His eyes darted over to the chair; suddenly sitting down seemed damn appealing. He was distracted by this thought when his phone chimed with yet another text.

He turned his head, hearing the click of sensible heels on the concrete and found the not-Anthea alpha approaching him. Not that she seemed terrible conscious of this, her attention still riveted to the device in her hands.

“I’m to take you home.”

Rather than answer, John put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone. Two could play at this game.

_Could be dangerous._

_SH_

John slipped his phone back into his pocket. something lovely, warm and liquid, flooded his chest, his alpha  silently purring that his omega thought danger an enticement.

Removing his hand from his pocket, John held it out and studied it a minute. _Yep… Still as a stone._ He had a feeling he was going to need a steady hand if he was going to continue hanging around Sherlock Holmes. The thought made the corners of his mouth curl just slightly.

Not-Anthea’s bored voice broke him from his reverie.

“Address?”

Despite the bother of being kidnapped, John found himself relieved that he had a ride and wouldn’t be caught out after curfew.  But that he had been kidnapped gave him pause. So the crazy omega was letting him go now… but what about in the future… and what about Sherlock?

 Looking up, John gathered himself and began moving towards her. He took out his phone again and pulled up Stamford’s number.  

“Er, Baker Street. Two two one B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first. I loaned some books to a friend of mine and I need to get them back before I go… uh… Home.”

Anthea shrugged without looking up, obviously not bothered by the extra stop. John  imagined she wouldn’t be so game if she knew what he was retrieving along with his books. Not that he had any intention of letting her know that. He just nodded and dropped his eyes back down to his phone and began to tap out a text to Mike.

  
Side by side the two alphas headed back to the car, not speaking, eyes on their respective gadgets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you wonderful ones who left notes last chapter. Next chapter goes back to Sherlock and his and John's little reunion.


	11. Of Mobiles, Cases, and Skulls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was ill last week and watched all the episodes back to back. I have to say, it rather made me want to do the whole series through this lens. It seemed so clear when I was watching. For now, though... on with this one!

 

* * *

His medical books and a new can of neutralizer sitting heavy in his lap, John stared out the window as the car pulled onto Baker St. **  
**

John's gaze dropped back then to the not-Anthea alpha who’d he’d taken to silently calling “Blackberry” in his head. She hadn’t stopped typing or looked at him once since he’d entered the car with her back at the warehouse. Not even when he’d had the car stop off at Stamford’s.

Drawing up to the curb of 221, John cleared his throat loudly trying to draw her attention. “Listen... That omega of yours... Any chance you could not tell him about my little stop over?” **  
**

It surprised him when his question earned him actual eye contact.  **  
**

“Sure.”

The half-smile that followed provided not-Anthea’s truer answer, however.

“You’ve told him already, haven’t you?”

She gave him a half-hearted shrug of apology. “Yeah.”

“Right…” John nodded; he supposed he could have hardly expected otherwise.

The driver opened the door and John peered out before exiting the sedan. So close to curfew he didn’t want to get picked up on his sponsor’s doorstep. Just before leaving the car, however, he couldn’t help but turn back.

“Hey, um...  If you don’t mind my asking, what the blazes is so interesting on that little machine of yours?”

Large eyes flickered up at him again. “I’m working on my doctoral dissertation. My sponsor doesn’t care for idiot alphas.”

This time it was John’s turn for wide eyes. “Really? On that thing?”

“One learns to make do…” not-Anthea sighed.

Considering he’d been kidnapped, John was surprisingly willing to linger. He actually found the notion of such a highly educated alpha female rather enticing.

“What’s your thesis subject then?”

“Alpha/Omega fanfiction.”

John had never heard of such a thing. “Fan what?”

His question drew a chuckle from the other alpha, who’s eyes had already returned to her Blackberry. Heat crept into John’s cheeks when he realized not-Anthea was pulling his chain.

“Oh… Right. You’re not going to tell me your actual topic.”

He waited a moment to see if any more information might be forthcoming. Instead, not- Anthea looked back up after several long moments and seemed surprised to see him still there. Her sculpted brows rose and she regarded him as though he was exactly one of those “idiot alphas” her sponsor detested. It was a look John was becoming all too familiar with.

When this didn’t get him going quickly enough, she growled lightly.

“Bye.”

“Uh… yeah. Okay.”

Understanding that all further conversation had been terminated, John slid out of the car. He limped up to the stoop as the sedan silently pulled away.

Since Sherlock had texted him to come, rather than knock right away and wake Mrs. Hudson, John set his hand on the knob and gave it an exploratory twist. When the latch “clicked” he breathed a sigh of relief and pushed in.

After locking the door behind him, John set his books on a small table in the entry. He gave the aerosol can of neutralizer a quick shake. In the midst of the action he thanked the universe for giving him such a liberal and generous friend in Stamford. He’d texted Mike and requested the neutralizer when he’d asked if he could pick up his books.

The last thing he wanted was to return to his new sponsor smelling strongly of his abductor’s heat-cusped scent. Being a beta, Mike hadn’t any on hand, so he’d run out and bought some before John arrived, a good strong brand. John was immensely grateful for both the kindness and Mike’s lack of questions.

“Oh, thank goodness you made it home safe, Dear!”

John jumped at Mrs. Hudson’s voice behind him.

“I was so worried that he’d lost you already. I hope you won’t take it too much to heart… He’s forgetful that way…” Mrs. Hudson trailed off when John’s compromised scent hit her. She recognized it immediately and frowned. “Oh no… this will never do!”

Alarm contorted John’s face. He didn’t want Sherlock’s den mother thinking he’d been out “fraternizing” with some other omega.

“It’s not… I mean… I uh, got detained,” John offered this with a helpless shake of his head, knowing how lame it sounded.

“I should say you did.” Mrs. Hudson sniffed again. “Of course that meddler would try and interfere,” she huffed under her breath.

“Come on then. Pass that can over and I’ll give you a good spritzing.”

John’s eyes widened in amazement. “You... You’d do that?”

Not knowing she was familiar with his abductor’s scent already, he’d been expecting Mrs. Hudson to at least berate him about being an unfaithful knothead and pull him by his ear up the stairs to beg his omega’s forgiveness.

“Of course, Dear.” After adjusting her robe, Mrs. hudson took the can from John’s stunned hand. “Sherlock smelled so happy when he got home. No need to change that. Especially when it’s early days yet. Don’t you agree?”

Still shocked, John nodded dumbly. Then he drew a breath and closed his eyes as Mrs. Hudson circled around him dousing him with the neutralizer. Gowned and curlered as she was, she looked like one of the mythical, omega crones of old carrying out some heat-magic ritual.

Once she’d gone over him twice and John passed her sniff test, she smiled. “That’s much better.” She gave the can a little wave. “Shall I keep this down here with me for you, Doctor? Just in case?”

John couldn’t reconcile himself to Mrs. Hudson’s aplomb about his tainted scent. Even more disturbing was the fact her offer implied he’d be showing up like this again in the future. Rather than say any of this, however, he merely dipped his head in appreciation.

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“You can thank me by getting yourself back up there.” She nodded her head up the stairs. while John gathered his books up. “He was thumping about quite a bit earlier, but now he’s gone quiet. I’m never quite sure which one’s more dangerous.”

John tipped his head in question at this comment, but Mrs. Hudson only smiled even more brightly at him before retreating back into her flat.

“Night, Dear.”

As soon as the older omega disappeared from view, John sorted through his stack of texts. Opening the hollowed book in the middle, he pulled out his gun. After quick check that all was in order, he tucked it into his waistband of his trousers at the base of his spine.

It was a comforting sensation, though he knew if he got caught with it, it would be an automatic death sentence for him. Outside military service and a few other rare exceptions, alphas were forbidden to carry arms. Even police alphas like Lestrade only carried tasers most times; their omega or beta partners carrying the true weapons.

Regardless of the danger to himself, however, having just been given a reprieve by not-Athea’s looney omega, John was determined to keep both himself and his sponsor safe. Whether his omega merited this or not was an entirely different matter.

He shook his head as he gazed up the stairs.

John’s leg throbbed and he felt his ire return again at how he’d been left. Drawing a deep breath to calm himself filled his nostrils with 221’s occupants. Down here, Mrs. Hudson’s scent was dominant but Sherlock was undeniably present too. Annoyed to feel his anger being quickly quashed by other instincts, he muttered again, “damn hormones…” Then he adjusted his jacket and started towards the stairs.

* * *

While John made his way upstairs, Sherlock was reclining, stretched out on the couch. His stillness a stark contrast to the whirlwind spinning within him.

Though he’d pulled up his new alpha’s mobile number shortly after arriving home, Sherlock hadn’t actually called it immediately: his pride had him holding off calling for as long as he could. John’s absence, however, had thrown him into a bit of a frenzy.

After perusing the pink case, he’d gone into a frantic tidying mode. At least, he had until he realized to his horror that this mad activity was actually what he’d often heard referred to as omegan “nesting.” This stopped him immediately. As much as he wanted to delete this incident he hadn’t, lest his instinctual urges led him to engage in such ridiculous antics again in the future.

Incensed that he’d felt the need to alter the space for John, he’d drug the alpha’s pack upstairs and thrown it into the spare bedroom. However, once the pack was gone and the John-scent it carried had dissipated from the main room, Sherlock found himself growing increasingly anxious.

That was when he’d finally started texting.

His unease only increased when there was no response. Soon, Sherlock had found himself in an unhappy and too familiar spiral. Filled with a sense of "not good"-ness and that of something itching him just under his skin, he’d needed a fix of some kind and badly.

Eyes closed, shirtsleeves rolled up, and right hand clasped over the bared joint of his left arm, he was currently waiting for the chemicals to take hold. Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, entirely too conscious of the fact it was the throw pillow from the chair John had sat in that now cushioned his dark head.

_Of course I didn’t pick it on purpose, it was just handy._

He’d no sooner finished this thought than three things happened simultaneously: his deep breath filled his nose with the lingering scent of alpha Watson; the drug kicked in; and he heard the tap of cane and John’s heavy step on the stairs.

“Oh…”

The combination flooded Sherlock with a sudden and surprising relief. Gray eyes snapped open and he could literally feel his pupils dilate. Everything inside him stilled and he exhaled a grateful breath. The sudden clarity of his mind was incredibly welcome. Knowing, however, this was far more than the chemicals he’d recently introduced into his flesh, the reasons for this serene sharpness annoyed Sherlock immensely.

_Damn hormones..._

* * *

 

There was a soft knock on the door before John pushed quietly in a moment later. His eyes went immediately to Sherlock. The omega’s posture was strange: the way he was holding his left arm, his left hand clenching rhythmically like one would for a blood draw…

_Or after a hit of something._

Adjusting the books under his arm, John’s expression became perplexed. Within the few hours he’d known Sherlock, there were many things the omega Holmes had struck him as: _brilliant, crazy, impetuous, irresponsible_.

 _Drug abuser_ was not on that list.

“What are you doing?” John sniffed, trying not to be obvious. Taking into account Sherlock was suppressed, the air in the flat held the distinct but faint tang of distress.

“Nicotine patch.” Sherlock lifted his right hand to reveal three small circles, bright against his pale skin. “Helps me think.”

“It’s impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days.” Sherlock kept his voice calm, purposefully sounding disinterested though his keen eyes had noted the books in John’s hands, the alpha’s tense posture. He sighed ruefully, “bad news for brain work.”

There was that hard “k” again at the end of the sentence, just like in the taxi earlier when Sherlock had explained his deduction about “Iraq.”  John frowned at the fact he was already noting his new sponsor’s verbal idiosyncrasies. Even more bothersome, however, was that it struck him as kind of endearing.

Rather than dwell on this, he focused instead on the new knowledge his sponsor had a cigarette habit, or at least _had_. There was no odor of this in the flat, so Sherlock must have quit before he moved in. John, himself, had never taken to smoking: the cost too high both financially and physically.  

“May be bad for your brain but it’s good news for breathing.” Out of habit John moved further into the room cautiously, assessing his omega's state.

“Oh, breathing. Breathing’s boring.” Sherlock offered this despite the fact before his new alpha had arrived, his chest had felt uncomfortably constricted and now his breath came much easier.

A snort escaped John at the comment, his recent experiences having reminded him just how fond of breathing he was. “Only until you can’t,” he muttered softly, his eyes scanning the room.

He noted that while still cluttered, the flat was considerably tidier. Something purred within him at the sight. It was cut short, however, when he realized along with this his belongings, or former belongings, had disappeared.

“Did you put my pack somewhere?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted across flat toward the staircase. “Up in your room.”

John wondered again what had upset his sponsor, though he was relieved too that it didn't smell as though the man had been in any real danger. His attention drifted over to the steps. He rubbed his thigh unconsciously. It wasn’t that he wanted really to share the downstairs bedroom with Sherlock necessarily; but on top of his leg, it wasn’t the best location for him to defend his sponsor’s nest. 

Watching John’s reaction to the stairs, it was Sherlock’s turn to frown. His initial thoughts about the advantages of hosting a crippled alpha had shifted: having John ambulatory would be much more advantageous. Sherlock began to strategize a plan to cure his psychosomatic injury.

He nodded to the books under John’s arm, wanting to distract the alpha from his misplaced aches. “Don’t tell me you were gone so long because you decided to go to the library. Do they even issue alphas cards?”

John’s hand moved from rubbing his leg to the back of his blond head; he scowled.

“No and yes,"  John snapped, clearly offended by the questions. "But I could have gone. I’ll keep it in mind as an option the next time you decide to up and leave me off somewhere.”

One of Sherlock’s dark brows rose at the growl in John’s tone, but rather than he reply he merely waited. The silence made John uncomfortable, as did the fact he’d held back some of his belongings. Both this and his snappishness were not proper behaviors. His head dipped down as his eyes fell on the books he held.

“These are mine. I picked them up from Stamford’s.”

Though he remained silent, Sherlock found the alpha’s conflicted expression amusing.

“I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about my reading; so I’d called him earlier today and he’d picked them up from the center for me. Just to hold them, you know… I didn’t want to lose them.”

This earned John a tip of Sherlock’s head and a narrowed-eyed gaze.

“What are you hiding in them?”

John’s own eyes widened at this. Rather than answer, however, he deflected; suddenly seeming to notice the number of nicotine patches on his sponsor’s arm.

“Is that three patches?”

 _A weapon then_ , Sherlock surmised. Not that this bothered him: he couldn’t imagine John turning such a thing on him… _At least not yet_. Plus, this new development just made his alpha even more interesting.

_Yes, I definitely must do something about that leg._

Given this, Sherlock was content to let John slide at the moment. So, rather than press his alpha, instead he pressed his palms together and steepled them under his chin. He closed his eyes.

“It’s a three-patch problem.”

John wasn’t sure what this cryptic answer meant, but he was sure that an overdose of nicotine wasn’t good for his sponsor’s health. This thought took him right back to his recent abduction. Despite being surrounded in Sherlock’s den-scent and knowing his omega was safe, seeing  the man lying there so placidly, ignoring him after all he’d just been through, John’s irritation swirled up to the surface again.

“Well?... You asked me to come. I’m assuming it’s important.”

After a few beats of silence, John was about to say something more, but then Sherlock’s eyes flew open, as though he’d just remembered something.

“Oh, yes. Of course. Can I borrow your phone?”

“My phone?” John couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice. _What the hell is dangerous about that?_ Sherlock had made his return to Baker St. sound so urgent.

If he noticed John’s tone, Sherlock didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he merely hummed his assent.  “I don’t want to use mine. There’s always a chance that the number will be recognised. It’s on my website.”

John found this almost as irritating as the umbrellaed omega’s earlier phone box antics.

“Mrs. Hudson’s got a phone.”

Sherlock hummed again but didn’t bother to make eye contact. “Yes, she’s downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn’t hear.”

“I was the other side of London.” _Almost out after curfew… Kidnapped..._

One would have to of been deaf to have not heard the rumble in John’s voice now. This didn’t seem to bother Sherlock in the least. He spoke as though he was discussing the weather or a nice cup of tea.

“There was no hurry.”

 _Serve, provide, protect…_ John reminded himself, drawing a deep breath. He watched his sponsor’s gray eyes close again. Finally after adjusting his books once more; he dipped his free hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

A few limping strides carried him to Sherlock’s side. He held his mobile out.

“Here.”

The cross look on John’s face shifted into one of angry disbelief when Sherlock’s eyes remained closed and the omega merely held his right hand out, palm up, rather than reach out and take it.

John could hear his sponsor’s posh voice in his head, _Be a good alpha, Watson_.

Gritting his teeth, he stepped over, closing the mere centimeters of distance between them and slapped the phone into the waiting hand. He startled when Sherlock’s left hand darted out to close around his wrist and he was pulled even closer.  

His sponsor gave his wrist a light scenting.

The sudden action jolted John’s alpha instincts, as did the touch. This was made worse by the fact, being so near Sherlock John could now strongly smell the omega’s subtle but rich flavor combined with his own lingering ruttish scent on the pillow beneath the tousled, dark head. The blend registered somewhere low in his gut as “perfect” and blood rushed to his groin.

This did not help his mood in the slightest.

As soon as his wrist was released, John pulled his hand sharply back and moved away from the couch. This abrupt motion didn’t seem to disturb Sherlock at all. He didn’t even open his eyes, he just put his hands together again with the mobile between them and returned to his posture of faux-prayer.

“You re-neutralized.” Sherlock stated this as a fact, ignoring the disappointed whimper of some base part of himself deep within.

Since it hadn’t been posed as a question, John didn’t answer his sponsor’s observation. Instead, he tried to divert both their attentions back to the issue of why Sherlock needed his phone so badly. Especially since the man now held it and was doing absolutely nothing.

 _Damn omega, crying wolf_ … “So why do you need my phone? What’s this about? The case?”

“Her case,” Sherlock quietly corrected.

John was confused. “Her case?” His mind flashed back to the crime scene and Sherlock’s mad shoutings before he fled. His questioning tone was enough to get Sherlock to reluctantly open his eyes, they flickered over; _idiot alpha_ shone like neon in their expression.

“Her suitcase, yes. Obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake.”

While John never liked being talked down to, he was still at a loss as to how his phone had anything to do with Jennifer Wilson’s missing suitcase.

“Okay... He took her case. So?”

Sherlock had turned his attention away, gazing off into space again, muttering more to himself than John it seemed. “It’s no use, there’s no other way. We’ll have to risk it.”

John’s brow dipped when the phone he’d just handed over was lifted up and offered back to him; Sherlock’s gaze remained skyward, however. The fluid grace of his motion held definite omegan imperiousness, as did his voice now.

“On my desk there’s a number. I want you to send a text.”

While some might have read the twitch of John’s lips as the quirk of an irritated smile, in truth, he was fighting the urge to flash his teeth and snarl.

“You called me back here ... To. Send. A. Text.”

The phone remained suspended, Sherlock either unhearing or uncaring the tightness in his alpha’s voice. “Text, yes. The number. On my desk.”

He remained just as unmoved when John stomped over and snatched his phone back. Once his hand was free of the mobile, Sherlock refolded his hands under his chin once more and allowed his eyes to slide closed again.

He could feel the radiant heat of the alpha’s anger, it was dislocating without any accompanying scent. “Do you plan on telling me why you re-neutralized? Or shall I be forced to deduce?”

John was on his way to the desk with the questions caught him. He felt himself flush. The reminder of why he’d done it also drew him instinctively to the window. Peering out, he half expected to see the black sedan returned and waiting at the curb.

“Nothing to deduce. It’s simple really: you left me out, uncollared, close to curfew, with a spotty neutralizer.”

Hearing this shift in course beside him, Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head slightly seeking his alpha. He could tell in an instant the question had upset John.

“You had your collar. You could have just slipped it back on.”

“I did put it on.” John sighed. His hand going to his throat, fingering just under the neck of his jumper.

Given this Sherlock was pressed to understand why John would feel the need to de-scent himself again. He could tell too by the alpha’s voice that he was holding something back.

"What’s wrong?”

“Just met a friend of yours,” John answered at last. His eyes flickered over to meet Sherlock’s gaze for an instant before turning back to scan the street again.

“A friend?” Sherlock’s brow knit at this.

John caught the tone in the question and his eyes darted back over. The expression on the omega’s face told him that his sponsor had missed his sarcasm. He also saw, and it twinged something within him despite how agitated he was, the truth in the multiple assertions he’d received that night that Sherlock Holmes did not have friends. So he clarified.

“Alright, an enemy then.”

“Oh.”

It stunned John to see how, at this, rather than tense, Sherlock’s body language suddenly relaxed. He found himself almost smiling at the rather pleased curiosity in his sponsor’s voice when Sherlock asked, “Which one?”

 _Must be quite a list apparently_.

“Your arch-enemy…” Remembering the the pomposity of the other omega, John snorted,  “according to him.”

He allowed the dusty curtain he’d drawn back to fall closed again and turned back to meet Sherlock’s gaze once more. “Do people really have arch-enemies?”

Gray eyes narrowed suspiciously. Then understanding dawned and Sherlock damned himself for not thinking of it earlier: John’s absence, the lack of texts, the neutralizer. Plus, the fact Bothercroft had to have known about the adoption and hadn’t yet popped round to harangue him about it.

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

Blue eyes widened slightly in wonder at how Sherlock would know this. John only hesitated a moment before answering, “Yes.”

_Among other things…_

Interest flared in Sherlock’s expression. “Did you take it?”

The answer was instant.

“No!”

Highly offended by the implication his loyalties could be so easily bought, John was entirely unprepared for his sponsor’s response.

“Pity. I know you’re anxious about contributing to the household. That would have surely been a help.” Sherlock’s voice was almost reprimanding, “Think it through next time.”

It was uncanny that Sherlock and the mystery omega’s comments on John’s alpha instincts were so closely worded. John allowed his curiosity to overcome his wounded alpha ego.

“Who is he?”

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met. And... not my problem right now.” Sherlock muttered.” After a moment’s reflection, he added in a kinder tone, “though I do appreciate you not bringing his overbearing odor into the house.”

Some of the tension left John’s body at this. While alphas were stereotypically held as being the jealous ones, there was no dearth of evidence from his experiences that omega’s could have some pretty violent, possessive expressions of their own. Not that Sherlock seemed this type at all.

_Quite the opposite in fact._

Regardless, while Sherlock hadn’t really answered his question as to who the other omega was, it relieved John that he’d been honest about “meeting” him and that he wasn’t in trouble with his sponsor.

He was snapped out of this momentary place of peacefulness, when Sherlock barked out, “On my desk. The number.”

John glowered over at Sherlock, only to find he was being ignored once more. Apparently their “tender” moment was over. With a sigh of resignation, he walked over to a surprisingly clear desktop, set his stack of books down, and picked up a piece of paper. It was obviously part of a luggage label. His brows lifted as he read the tag’s contents out loud.

“Jennifer Wilson… Hang on. Isn’t that the dead woman?”

There was a dismissive wave of hand from the couch. “Yes. That’s not important. Just enter the number.”

John shook his head. He’d always been better at giving orders than taking them. Nonetheless, he began to enter the number into his phone.

“Are you doing it?”

_If you could just bother to turn your bloody head..._

“Yes,” John gritted out.

“Have you done it?”

 _Christ, and they say alphas have no patience._ “Hang on, I’m doing it!”

Undeterred by the snap in John’s answer, Sherlock continued, “These words exactly: _What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out_.”

This made John’s head pop up, not that Sherlock noticed. The omega continued to dictate.

“ _Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come_.”

There was no denying the concern on John’s face now, or held in his voice. “Wait... You blacked out?”

It took Sherlock a moment to process the question. Then he realized what John was asking.

"What? No... No!"

_Why must everyone be so obtuse?_

It was clear that he was going to have to handle this himself… _Yet once again_. Sherlock popped up from the couch and stepped over the coffee table enroute to the kitchen, continuing to direct John on his way.

“Type and send it... Quickly.”

His earlier assertion about his alpha’s technological lack of prowess was born out when he returned from the kitchen carrying the small pink case, only to find John still clumsily tapping on his phone.

“Have you sent it?”

Sherlock asked this as he brought out a kitchen chair and flipped it around in front of one of the living room’s two armchairs. After setting the suitcase onto the dining chair, he settled into an armchair. It amazed him after doing all this, to look up and note that John was still typing.

John felt his sponsor’s eyes on his back. “What’s the address again?” He could almost hear Sherlock’s eyes rolling.

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Hurry up!”

Finishing the message at last, John turned around to just in time to see Sherlock unzip a pink case and flip the lid open revealing a bunch of lady’s things. There was no noticeable change in the room’s scent when the case was opened, so it obviously belonged to a beta woman.

John had mentally just finished putting all the pieces together regarding the case when his bad leg suddenly spasmed and he stumbled back against the table. “That’s... That’s the pink lady’s case. That’s Jennifer Wilson’s case.”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock replied without looking up. Feeling the intense alphic stare pointed at him continue unabated, he at last glanced up into John’s searching eyes. He responded to John’s expression with a snort.

“Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn’t kill her.”

Hearing the sarcasm in his sponsor’s voice, the look on John’s face flitted from question to guilt. “I never said you did.”

Sherlock was rather stunned by how quickly the alpha shifted: it was obvious that his assertion alone had been enough to convince John of his innocence.

_Remarkable..._

“Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption.”

Sherlock was surprised again when instead of lapsing back into doubt John asked instead, “Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?”

The question remained free of doubt. There was no fear in it either, only curiosity. This filled Sherlock’s chest with a strange warmth and brought a pleased smirk to his lips.

“Now and then. Yes.”

John watched Sherlock resituate himself in the chair. The finalized posture had his sponsor perched, knees bent, shoes atop the seat cushion. The omega’s backside was braced against the backrest; hands clasped under his chin once more. It was a defensive posture, curling in like that, John recognized, and rather childlike. It sparked some primal place that suddenly made him want to protect Sherlock beyond mere alphic duty.

“Okay…” John offered this though it was obvious Sherlock had gone into deducing mode again, just as he had at the crime scene. The man’s gray eyes were fixed on the open case with a startling intensity.

Limping from where he stood over to the other armchair, John dropped into it and settled in with a sigh. He told himself this relocation was for his aching leg, not because there’d been an enticing spike in Sherlock’s scent. It was easy to see his sponsor wanted to perform for him again. It made something within him swell, as well as an outward part of himself too. John was suddenly glad he was seated. Doing his best to push his biology aside, he tried to focus his stirred senses on the suitcase.

He waited for Sherlock to reveal how he’d come to have Wilson’s case. When nothing was immediately forthcoming he finally prompted, “How did you get this?”

“By looking.”

Despite the glibness of this answer, inside, Sherlock was purring at his alpha’s interest. He paused to see if John would persist or merely dismiss him like so many others. He wasn’t disappointed, as a moment later John asked, “Where?”

It wasn’t quite as pleasing as it would have been to of had John right there with him when he’d found it, still Sherlock’s chest unconsciously puffed up as he described his search.

“The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention. Particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So, obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake.”

Sherlock had run through this information so quickly he had to pause for a breath. “So, I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens... and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed.”

There was no denying the pride in his voice. “Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

The warmth in Sherlock’s chest bloomed fuller when he chanced a glance over at John. The alpha didn’t need to say “Amazing;” it was written all over his ever-expressive face.

“Pink.” John shook his head, baffled once more by his sponsor’s brilliant brain. “You got all that, because you realised the case would be pink?”

Sherlock huffed in exasperation, “Well, it had to be pink, obviously.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” John sighed, staring at the case. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re an alpha.” The words slipped out from Sherlock before he realised what he’d said.

He winced internally seeing John immediately tense beside him. Despite the fact the neutralizer was holding remarkably well, Sherlock didn’t need John’s scent to realize he’d just wounded the man: the first person in forever to be interested in his deductions. Understanding this sparked an uncomfortable and unfamiliar pang of conviction within his chest.

It was hard to tell which of them was more stunned when this immediately caused Sherlock to raise a hand in placation and rush out in a desperate breath, “No, no, no. Don’t look like that.”

John’s expression shifted from surprised, to mollified, and then back to annoyed when Sherlock tried to expand his attempt at soothing by adding. “ I meant to say ‘idiot.’ And you can’t hardly blame yourself for that. Practically everyone is. An idiot, I mean.”

Feeling he’d done a reasonable job shoring up John’s wounded alpha ego, Sherlock turned his attention back to the case.

“Now, look. Do you see what’s missing?”

Though John had realized that his sponsor, it seemed, was genuinely trying not to be quite such an ass; despite Sherlock’s confidence in his reparations, he was still stinging from the comment.

“From the case? How could I?”

_How in the hell am I supposed to see anything? I am just an alpha, after all. And an idiot to boot, apparently._

“Her phone.” Sherlock gestured to the case, his manner belying his excitement. “Where’s her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there’s no phone in the case. We know she had one – that’s her number there; you just texted it.”

John didn’t share Sherlock’s enthusiasm, It seemed to him there was a practical and likely obvious answer. “Maybe she left it at home.”

“She has a string of lovers and she’s careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home!” Sherlock snorted in disgust, resituating himself in his chair into a posture just shy of proper. Once settled again he stared at John.

“Er…” John was at a loss. It was obvious his sponsor expected something from him but this was like playing a game without anyone laying out the rules beforehand. Feeling stupid again, he dropped his eyes from Sherlock’s intense stare. They fell on his mobile, set now on the arm of his chair.

A quick glance from the phone to Sherlock got him rewarded with one of his sponsor’s tight smiles. It made him uneasy. It was also a hint. Something in John’s brain “clicked.”

“Why did I just send that text?”

Sherlock nodded, his expression shifting into _now we’re getting somewhere_.  “Perhaps the better question to ask is: where is her phone now?

“She could have lost it.” John knew in an instant this wasn’t what Sherlock wanted.

“Yes, or ...?”

Mind racing to find the correct answer, John was beginning to wonder if perhaps he wasn’t just a little bit stupid. Then, again, something sparked.

“Wait… The murderer... You think the murderer has the phone?”

“Maybe she left it when she left her case.” Sherlock shrugged lightly, but he was obviously pleased that John had mentally joined him at last. “Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.”

It took John a moment to process this. “Sorry... What are we doing?” There was a twist in his gut when he realized just how Sherlock had made "dangerous" and his mobile fit together.

“Did I just text a murderer?!” The thought was both terrifying and thrilling. And confusing. “What good will that do?”

No sooner had he asked the question then the phone  began to ring. John picked it up carefully as though it might suddenly sport fangs and give him a good nip. Checking the ID he saw the number was withheld.

Talking over the continued ringing, Sherlock smirked. “A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer…”

Gray eyes fell on the mobile, just as it fell silent.

“...Would panic.”

There was that hard “K” again and the drama that the umbrella wielding omega had earlier derided. John found himself slightly in awe once more at his sponsor’s reasoning.

Leaving John staring at his phone, glowing with the obvious effects of his most recent deductive display, Sherlock flipped the lid of the case closed and strode across the room to pick up his jacket.

“Have you talked to the police?” John raised his gaze from his phone now, watching as Sherlock slipped into his blazer. His question drew a snort from his sponsor.

“Four people are dead. There isn’t time to talk to the police.”

 _You can’t call the cops but you’ll spend a quarter hour showing off to your new alpha?_ Not to mention all the time he'd waited for him to bring his phone to send that text. John thought he might have to reassess his opinion about Sherlock’s spectacular reasoning.

“So why are you talking to me?”

Sherlock nodded over, behind John, to the mantle as he pulled his greatcoat from it’s hook behind the flat’s front door. There was no mistaking the petulance in his tone.

“Mrs. Hudson took my skull.”

It was important for alphas to feel needed, but this was hardly the need John had anticipated filling for his sponsor. “So now, outside of making points and texting murderers, I’m basically filling in for your skull?”

“Relax, you’re doing fine.” Sherlock assured as he slipped his long arms into his sleeves. After settling his coat upon his shoulders, he pulled on his weighted scarf. It took him a moment to realize that John had remained motionless in his chair.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

Sherlock’s brow dipped seeing John’s expression. It was obvious that the man had taken his joke to heart. Surprising how sensitive his new alpha was, though he’d always been told they had fragile egos. He was annoyed to have to prompt John, however.

“Well, you could just sit there and watch telly.”

“What? You want me to come with you again?” John’s voice was incredulous.

“I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud." Sherlock refused to let go of his joke, even if John lacked appreciation for the subtleties of humor. "The skull just attracts attention, so …

“What about curfew?”

“Curfew? Curfew is boring…”

“Easy for you to say!” John growled.“You’re not the one who’s going to get stuffed into the tank, whipped if you’re caught.”

Sherlock frowned lightly watching the alpha settle further into his chair. John was digging in; though he could tell this was really more about principle than fear.

_This is no good. My plan’s not going to work if he doesn’t come with me._

Deciding on a new tack, Sherlock kept his voice bland. There was nothing in his tone to indicate how much he really wanted John to join him.

“That neutralizer is holding firm, no reason you can’t pass for a beta if you keep your collar hidden.” Sherlock added, setting his plan into action, “And if it wears off, you’ll be with me anyways...”

John’s bitter smile reminded Sherlock of his earlier abandonment. It also provided the perfect opportunity for him to level his challenge.

“That is, providing you can keep up.”

These words were met with just the response Sherlock had hoped for. John’s smile bloomed into a toothsome, silent snarl and he slid forward in his chair. Just before rising, however, he stopped again. Sherlock frowned at this. He wasn’t sure how much more patience he had for cajoling his reluctant alpha.

“Problem?”

“Yeah. DI Donovan.”

Once again John surprised Sherlock with his answer. This certainly wasn’t what he expected to hear and he couldn’t manage to keep the sourness off his face or out of his voice at the name.

“What about her?”

“She said…” John hesitated.

It was obvious to Sherlock John was having difficulty determining which omega authority he should defer to. Loyalty to his sponsor got the better of him. Sherlock silently preened at this.

“She said you get off on this. You enjoy it.”

 _Oh, that_. Sherlock couldn’t understand why John offered this like he was revealing some sort of secret. They’d work on his authority issues later, right now he just need to get the alpha out of that damn chair.

“And I said 'dangerous,' and here you are.”

Sherlock compounded this second challenge by turning and walking out the door without a look back. He was halfway down the stairs when he realized his heart was beating abnormally hard.

John sat there stunned for a few moments once his sponsor disappeared out the door. He wasn’t so stupid as not to recognize how the omega was manipulating his alphic instincts to pursue: his desire to follow now stirred to the point of painful. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he felt the weight of his gun behind him. He knew he'd get far more than a whipping if he got caught out with this on him.

_Better make sure you keep up then... If you go with him, that is._

He lifted his sleeve to his nose and took a deep whiff.

Sherlock was right, the blocker Stamford had gotten for him was still holding strong. Sherlock had also challenged him; and Sherlock was going out without him.  Out there, where there was a black car waiting for him in the night, a murderer too, perhaps.

_That tears it then…_

“Damn omega!”

John pushed himself up from his chair, wincing through the pain in his leg. He stuffed his phone into his pocket and grabbed for his cane before limping off at triple time to try and catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a time to get up... RL and all. Hoping to have some good writing time over the Thanksgiving days... Words on a page make me grateful.
> 
> Speaking of words, much affection to all of you who left such wonderful feedback. Thank you for all the kudos too.


	12. Leaps and Bounds

It took John a bit longer to catch up to Sherlock than he anticipated. Not just because his leg was throbbing, but it had been a long, adrenaline-fueled day. That he was practically stumbling with hunger as well didn’t help.

_Suck it up Watson and just imagine you’re back in the field._

Determined there was no way in hell his omega was going to lose him this time out, John gritted his teeth and closed the remaining strides between them until he was side by side his sponsor on the pavement.

“Where are we going?”

Now they were abreast each other, John thought his perception might be off, but it seemed Sherlock slowed his pace just slightly. He thanked god for small favors.

“Northumberland Street’s a five-minute walk from here.”

John cast his eyes around the still heavily peopled pavement. It was almost exclusively betas and omega now, with the occasionally leashed alpha, as post-curfew stipulations required. He relaxed only when he noted nobody seemed to be paying them any attention.

Then he recalled the address his sponsor had him text and tensed again. “You think you’re murderer is stupid enough to go there?”

The smile his question elicited was almost as disquieting as Sherlock’s answer. “No – I think he’s brilliant enough.” Sherlock clapped his gloved hands together with undisguised glee.

“I love the brilliant ones. They’re always so desperate to get caught.”

“What?” John was at a loss. “Why?”

Sherlock shot him a disappointed look before adjusting his scarf and gesturing expansively. “Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That’s the frailty of genius, John.

“It needs an audience.”

“Yeah.” John’s tone indicated he was becoming well aware this particular dynamic, but it was completely lost on Sherlock; the omega too caught up in the thrall of his own performance presently to notice.

Spinning around dramatically, Sherlock gestured to the buzzing streets around them. “This is his hunting ground. Right here, in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go.”

Once Sherlock faced forward again, he brought his gloved hands up to his temples. “Think!”

John didn’t want to think. He was more interested in how Sherlock’s antics were drawing questioning glances from the walk’s other pedestrians.

“Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

“Well, not an alpha, that’s for damn sure.” John couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice as he watched another leashed comrade pass them by.

Sherlock frowned at this. “Unless he was being covert… Like you are.”

“Christ, could you say say that just a little bit louder?!” Worried eyes cast about as John shrugged deeper into his coat.

Sherlock’s brows rose, realizing suddenly John had the weapon previously hidden in his books on him. A firearm too…

_Extraordinary._

The alpha’s encounter with Mycroft must have affected him much more significantly than he’d let on. Sherlock’s anger at his brother swelled. It was matched with a grudging admiration for John’s resilience. Particularly after what the alpha had been through in the past hours.

Any one of these singularly would have been enough to undo most people: the crime scene, Mycroft, not to mention his earlier violation by that disgusting beta. Reviewing this list, Sherlock made a mental note to himself to ask Lestrade about how things had gone with Smith, the next time he saw him.

Turning his attention to John for a moment, Sherlock realized that while resilient, his new alpha wasn’t completely impervious: John’s color was a bit off, his mouth fixed in a grim line of focus. It was obvious the man was in pain and his energy flagging.

Conviction flared within Sherlock’s chest. John was his responsibility now.

The alpha should have been home settling into his new territory, not goaded into post-curfew excursions, however productive Sherlock's intentions were. A good omega would have taken this into account, would have gone out of his/her way to make their new alpha comfortable.

Of course, Sherlock had always known that he was a miserable omega.

His sense of this only increased when, beside him, John’s stomach suddenly rumbled loudly. Sherlock wondered when the alpha had last eaten. He always had difficulty remembering that not everyone’s transport ran as efficiently as his own.

John's cheeks had pinked just slightly at the sound of his rumbling stomach. Leaving off the matter of their murderer for the moment, Sherlock caught his eye.

“Hungry?”

John was starving actually, his sugar levels leaving him almost lightheaded, but he wasn’t about to admit this: it would look too much like weakness. So, instead he just shrugged.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the alpha bravado, despite the fact he’d been the one to throw down the challenge for John to “keep up.” Fortunately, where they were heading  would serve the dual purpose of refueling John, while still keeping an eye out for their murderer. He just hoped that the killer was panicked enough he’d give his sponsee time to actually eat something before showing up.

“Come on then…”

It surprised John when Sherlock tossed his dark head just ahead of them, towards the door of an Italian bistro, oddly named “Billy’s,” and moved to go inside. His eyes scanned the entrance and, even though the neutralizer was still working well, he exhaled a breath of relief to see the small “alphas accepted” notice posted in the window.

A lean, male omega greeted them at the door with a warm smile. John was surprised again, noting that man obviously knew his sponsor. Even more so when the omega gestured for them to take a table clearly marked “reserved,” occupying the front window.

Sherlock pulled out his best manners.

“Thank you, Billy.” He slipped out of his coat and gloves and into the booth.

Sliding in on the other side, John set his cane aside and shrugged out of his own jacket. He adjusted his jumper, making sure that the bulge of his gun wasn’t visible, despite the fact it was hidden already, pressed into the back of the bench’s cushion. He watched “Billy” remove the placard from the table while Sherlock settled in, sitting so that he could see the street outside, his gaze restless, scanning.

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it.”

At Sherlock’s directions, John chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. He should have realized by now his sponsor hadn’t chosen this place to actually eat.

“He isn’t just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He’d have to be mad.” John turned his head back around and tried not to look to wistful as his eyes swept over the food-laden tables of the restaurant’s few other late night diners.

“He has killed four people.” Sherlock reminded.

“Okay.” John was willing to concede this, his attention at the moment much more focused on the basket of bread being delivered to their table by a hulking and hiristute alpha.

“Mr. Holmes,” the alpha greeted, his expression clearly pleased to see Sherlock.

John tore his eyes away from the bread long enough to watch, stunned, as his sponsor offered the bond-collared alpha a warm handshake.

“Angelo, it’s been a time since I’ve seen you. Looks like you and Billy are still doing well.”

This brought a toothsome grin to the big alpha’s face.

Billy sidled up alongside Angelo and gave a light pat to the alpha’s aproned hip. His eyes glowed with pleasure. “Indeed. Anything on the menu, Sherlock, whatever you want, free.” He set a pair of menus on the table before wandering off again.

Angelo repeated his omega’s offer, “On the house.”

He nodded at John. John looked down and realized to his chagrin that his own collar had worked itself above the neck of his jumper. His eyes flitted up nervously to the other alpha’s. Angelo just gave him a wink. “Anything you want for you and your new mate.”

John waited for Sherlock to correct Angelo, but instead Sherlock merely pushed one of the menus towards him without taking his eyes off the street. “Do you want to eat?”

Of course he wanted to eat, but at the moment it seemed more important to correct the other alpha.

“I’m not his mate.”

John couldn’t help the slight wince articulating this evoked. Angelo merely grinned at him, his expression obvious he didn’t believe it. He nodded at Sherlock.

“This man got me off a murder charge.” The way he said it made it seem that this was just the sort of quality one should appreciate in a mate.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered over to the big alpha and back to his own. “John, this is Angelo. Billy sponsored him and now they’re bonded… What’s it been? Two years?”

Now that they’d both been acknowledged by Sherlock, Angelo offered his hand to John, who took it.

Sherlock continued on, shifting his focus, scanning the restaurant’s other patrons as he spoke. “Three years ago I successfully proved to Donovan at the time of a particularly vicious triple-murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking.”

“He cleared my name,” Angelo’s voice held no small amount of reverence.

John could understand this, it was rare for an alpha, particularly one accused of violence, to find reprieve.

“I cleared it _a bit_.” Sherlock corrected. He kept his gaze leveled on a beta/omega couple at the back, their alpha standing leashed beside their table. “Anything happening opposite?”

It struck John that this was not the first time that Billy’s had been used by Sherlock as a scouting station. Sherlock’s question didn’t even cause Angelo to blink.

Instead, his dark eyes merely perused the streets. “No. Nothing.” Then his gaze returned to John. “But for this man, I’d have gone to prison.”

“You did go to prison.” Sherlock corrected again, picking up his menu though he had no intention of ordering anything. Then he corrected himself. “Or at least alpha rehab, until Billy sponsored you.”

Angelo winced at the mention of alpha rehab. John didn’t blame him. From all accounts he'd heard of it,  AR made prison look like daycare. But it was obvious Angelo was an alpha of hardy constitution since he quickly shook it off and switched back into cupid mode.

“I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic.” Angelo gave John a knowing smile. “Always knew he’d find the right one someday. He introduced me to my Billy, you know. Said we’d be compatible...”

John frowned at this. His frowned deepened more so at the fact Angelo’s previous acquaintance with Sherlock stirred up something jealous within him; even if was through a case, and even though the man was now clearly bonded.

“I’m not his mate,” he muttered softly despite the fact Angelo had already departed.

Sherlock cocked his head at John’s quiet exclamation but dismissed the grumpiness as the alpha being hungry. He watched, curious, as John eyed the bread basket with undisguised want but made no move to take a piece. It was only when John noted Sherlock watching him and immediately dropped his gaze down to his lap that the omega realized his alpha was waiting for permission to eat.

“You may as well eat. We might have a long wait.”

John’s head rose immediately. Sherlock watched him hesitate, making sure, before he reached out to take a piece of the bread. The action made something twist unhappily inside him.

“Is it common for alphas to obtain permission before eating?”

John lowered the bread he’d just been about to bite into, his expression incredulous. “From a beta or omega… especially their sponsor… Yeah.”

It seemed impossible that Sherlock wouldn’t know this. Where had the man been living before Baker St? Under a rock in the Australian outback? … Seeing his sponsor’s face it was clear Sherlock truly hadn’t been aware.

“I mean… depending on the sponsor, an alpha might need permission to do most anything. Not just eat, but sleep, bathe, use the loo even…” John felt his cheeks heat up. “And of course anything sexual, even if it’s just solo activity...”

“Really?” It was obvious Sherlock wasn’t pleased with this revelation. “How tedious.

”Is it like that in the service?”

John looked longingly at the bread in his hand. It would be rude to answer with his mouth full. “No… not really. I mean, there’s direction from omega and beta superiors, but it’s different. That’s more how the private sector works, domestic arrangements, particularly.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed for a moment. He didn’t recall his parents having that sort of relationship. Then again, they’d bonded well before he was born. Still, it did explain a lot about his alpha father. Perhaps the man wasn’t as truly ineffective as he’d previously thought.

Any consideration of his parents made Sherlock uneasy, so he quickly diverted.

“No wonder alphas seem so eager to be leased to the military.” He set his menu down. “I mean, aside from your natural inclinations towards aggression.”

“Ta.” John dropped his eyes, biting into his bread at last. He needed to fill his mouth before he said something rash.

In his experience, it was power and greed that brought out the true aggression in people. He seen enough violence done by omegas and betas alike not to believe that alphas had any particular corner on that market. At least not these days.

He chewed and swallowed his bite down quickly, and took another, wanting to take in as much as possible without being too obvious. After all, he didn’t know when he’d get to eat next.  His sponsor’s next words almost made him choke, however.

“Well, that won’t do at all for me, I’m afraid, John. I don’t want to be tasked with all that bother.”

John looked up to meet intense gray eyes.

“No... You’ll have to manage yourself. Eat when you’re hungry, take yourself to bed. And I really don’t care to know about your bodily functions.” Sherlock’s brow dipped again as he revised this. “I mean, you should tell me if you fall ill, of course. Or if your body does something extraordinary that might merit an experiment of some sort.”

“Are you serious?” John sputtered, once he regained enough composure to speak. He was having difficulty wrapping his head around just how little his sponsor truly seemed to understand about sponsorship.

“Yes, John. Quite.”

The sincerity with which Sherlock said this stopped John in his tracks. At least, until Angelo returned to the table to drop off two filled water-glasses and a glass bowl, glowing with the flickering of a small tealight.

The alpha’s smile said “mates.” So did the grin and the thumbs up Angelo offered John as he stepped away from their table. Thankfully Sherlock missed this, his eyes glued back on the streets beyond the window once more.

John took a second piece of bread, happy to be silent. He had a lot to think about.

* * *

The way he’d continued to gaze all but unblinking through “Billy’s” window, Sherlock struck John as quite cat-like. 

His sponsor had waved Angelo away with nary a glance after John had ordered; offered the barest comment when his alpha’s meal had arrived, but other than this the man had said nothing and barely moved, outside taking a few sips of water and the quiet tapping of his restless fingers.

Halfway through his meal now, all the while John had been eating, his mind turned over all the things Sherlock had told him that evening, still trying to puzzle the omega out.

Sherlock had given him reign over his collar; told him he didn’t intend him for sex; and now had basically informed him he didn’t want to really try and control him at all. It made John wonder again why the man had bothered to get an alpha in the first place. At the same time, John told himself that, should Sherlock prove true to his word, he should be heartily counting his blessings. Given the possible fates that seemed likely when he was being held at the Center, with Sherlock, his future might be much more manageable than anything he had previously hoped for.

Provided the omega remained his sole sponsor.

As he mopped marinara from his plate with a bit of bread, John’s mind drifted back to Blackberry’s omega. He wondered again about his and Sherlock’s relationship.

 _God, if they were ex’s and ever got back together._ John shuddered at the thought of having to answer to that umbrellaed prat.

“People don’t have arch-enemies.”

After a long moment, Sherlock’s quietly drumming fingers stilled on the tabletop. His eyes at last flickered over to John, away from the seeming magnetic pull of the street.

“I’m sorry?”

“In real life.” John swallowed down a bite of his pasta before continuing. “There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.”

Sherlock’s gaze had returned to the window, his fingers resuming their quiet rhythm as well. “Doesn’t it? Sounds a bit dull.”

Revived by his meal, John wasn’t about to be put off now. He ignored his sponsor’s bored tone. “So then, are you going to tell me who I did meet?”

Sherlock frowned at this, obviously still considering the “dangerous” mystery omega “not his problem.” Rather than provide an answer, he gave John another question.

“Well, what do ‘real’ people have, then, in their ‘real lives’?”

It was clear to John, Sherlock was testing him again. As he formulated his answer, for the third time, he offered Sherlock the last piece of bread in the basket Angelo had brought them.

“Friends,” he started cautiously, though he’d already heard enough about Sherlock not having these.

He was pleased to see Sherlock take the bread at last, though the omega didn't look too happy about it. Meanwhile, he tried to think of another way to qualify the other people he’d met who figured into his sponsor’s life: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, Billy and Angelo.

“People they know; people they like; people they don’t like…”

Seeing no reaction yet, John pushed forward, “sponsees, lovers, mates, …”

Before he could roll out any more possibilities Sherlock sighed. “Yes, well, as I was saying – dull.” The omega waved his slice about and took a distracted bite of it. His expression at the realization he was eating something showed he'd just as much distaste for the bread as he did John's designations of relationship.

“So you’ve never had a mate?”

“Mate?” There was a note of disdain in Sherlock’s voice. His eyes stayed fixed on the world outside the window. “No. Not really my area. You’re my first sponsee as well.”

It was difficult to ascertain from his delivery whether Sherlock thought having acquired him was a positive thing; John hummed at this and tried to deny the way it prickled.

Rather than dwell, he focused instead on how odd it struck him that an omega Sherlock’s age had never previously sponsored an alpha. It was also hard for him to believe Sherlock had never considered himself mated to a past partner of any dynamic.

Although a secret part of John was pleased, this didn’t help give him any insight to the mystery omega.

“Er… Right.” He cleared his throat and trotted out the other option. “So do you have a lover then? Heat-mates maybe that you’ll be bringing round? I mean... You did say you wouldn’t be using me.”

The question caught Sherlock off guard. He had less romantic interest in people than he did his omega biology: both were cumbersome, time-wasting hassles as far as he was concerned.

John was hardly prepared for the sharp look Sherlock suddenly shot him. He lifted his palms slightly up off the table in a gesture of surrender. “Which is fine, by the way.” As the alpha, John knew he had no say in the matter anyways.

“I _know_ it’s fine!”

Sherlock said this, though he knew the opposite to be true. He scowled at John, not quite sure of what he was playing at. Nor did he believe the alpha. Few others seemed to share his opinions on relationship or the body’s messy bio-chemistry: his predilections or lack thereof always led to such awkwardness. He noted the tight-lipped smile his sponsee flashed at him.

_Case in point._

The ire in Sherlock’s voice told John he’d hit a sore spot. “So you’ve got a lover then? Or maybe had one until recently?”

Recalling the original subject that started this conversation, gray eyes widened with horror as Sherlock put the pieces together at last. It appalled him that John would ever even consider the possibility that, should he be inclined to “connect”in that fashion, he would _ever_ engage with someone as unbearable as Mycroft. Even if the man hadn’t been blood, the very notion was incomprehensible.

“Oh, god no!”

Fighting to keep the smile on his face, it alarmed John how much his question upset Sherlock. He’d obviously been a complete idiot again. Clearly his sponsor and his kidnapper had never been involved in that way. It suddenly occurred to him, given Sherlock’s odd manner, that perhaps his omega had never been involved with anyone like “that.”

_If that's the case, no wonder it upset him. How embarrassing._

Unfortunately, John had no idea what he might say to smooth down Sherlock’s bristled hackles.

“Right. Okay. You’re unattached.” John dropped his eyes to his plate. “Except for me, now, I mean.” For the first time since he’d put it on, his collar suddenly felt tight. He cleared his throat. “Fine... Good.”

Sherlock watched John pick up his fork again and resume eating, though it was clear the alpha no longer seemed to have much of an appetite. He continued to stare; still stunned that the John could make such a ridiculous deduction about Mycroft.

Finally he shifted his gaze back to the road outside the restaurant. Mind still reeling, Sherlock tried to figure out what could have led John to such an erroneous conclusion. Suddenly it hit him. This must be that alphic jealousy he was always hearing about.

_Of course!_

He’d told John he wouldn’t be using him for sex so, naturally, the alpha would start projecting onto anyone who seemed possessive. _And controlling twit that he is, how else would Mycroft of come across?_

It all made sense now. Especially since John had only been re-dosed with suppressants yesterday and given how he’d smelled today before they’d neutralized him, obviously close to rut.

“Look, John… Um...” Sherlock found the words he planned to say oddly sticking in his throat. “I understand how alphas are driven by their er… urges. And I know too, what you’ve been socialized to accept as your role in things. And while I’m flattered by your interest, I really must reiterate I'm not looking for that sort of arrangement.

“I think it’s important you understand I consider myself bonded to my work… And if you need ah… outlets… we can make outside arrangements for you. ”

Heat flooded John’s cheeks and he wanted to facepalm. His sponsor thought he’d made a pass at him. He’d tried to soothe Sherlock and had only succeeded in making things even more awkward. Sherlock had clearly stated previously he didn’t want him in that way and now he’d forced the man into an outright rejection.

This was turning, quite possibly, into one of the most uncomfortable conversations he'd ever had and John wanted it to end as soon as possible. He knew it was bad form, but he was acting "beta" right now, after all. He interrupted before Sherlock could say anything further.

“No.” The word caught in his throat. “No, I’m not asking...” The tightness only increased with each syllable, reducing him again to a simple “No.”

There was no denying the wariness in Sherlock’s gray eyes. John recognized the expression. He’d seen similar in some of the military omegas he’d aided, unhappy with their biology, despite their elevated position in society. Touch-starved but terrified of being vulnerable, not far enough away from a history that had once diminished them.

John knew what to do now. He held Sherlock’s gaze and reiterated, “No, Sherlock. I meant it when I said, _it’s all fine_. Really.” Anything that smacked of judgement, John made sure was absent from his voice. He locked eyes and didn’t look away as Sherlock studied him, seeking a lie.

It was amazing to watch the omega react when he didn’t encounter falsehood, but acceptance. Quiet gratitude flickered over Sherlock’s face and his shoulders lost a tiny amount of their perpetual tension. His own wave of relief coursed through John, when his sponsor nodded at last.

“Good. Thank you, John.” Sherlock returned his attention to the road.

John dropped his head and stared at his half-empty plate. A light exhale escaped him.

_Disaster averted._

However, it took him just a moment to realize the unfortunate fact his new understanding of Sherlock only made him feel even more protective. Before he could examine this, Sherlock’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Look across the street. Taxi.”

The excited whisper immediately had John twisting in his seat to look. He noted a taxi parked at the curb up the street, back end facing towards them. He squinted, trying to make out the numbers on the ID plate.

Sherlock’s body positively vibrated with anticipation. “It’s stopped at the address you gave. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out.

Both John and Sherlock froze for a moment when the lone male passenger in the cab’s back seat turned to look out the cab's rear window. The man’s expression clearly searching.

“Why a taxi?” Sherlock’s mind was in a whirl. “Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?”

“That’s him?” John didn’t know what a serial killer was supposed to look like, but found himself oddly disappointed the man didn’t appear more sinister.

“Don’t stare,” Sherlock hissed.

“You’re staring!” _Plus you told me to look, you daft git._ However, John turned his attention back to Sherlock. Just in time to catch the eye roll.

“We can’t both stare.” Sherlock rose even as he said this, picking up his things and heading towards the door. He moved so quickly, it took John a moment to fully realize that their meal was over. Another glance out the window and he watched Sherlock slip into his coat. It was clear his sponsor intended to stalk the supposed killer.

Panic for his omega’s safety gripped John, as well as determination that Sherlock was not going to leave him behind this time. All other thoughts immediately dropped, he grabbed his jacket and bolted outside. Just in time to see the taxi pull away and Sherlock go charging after it, right in front of an oncoming car.

John’s heart stopped at the squeal of brakes, the sound of light impact as Sherlock collided with the bonnet. But this didn’t stop his sponsor. Sherlock merely rolled over the car’s front, landing on his feet barely long enough to right himself before taking off again, after the taxi.

Adrenaline pumping through his veins, John dashed after, almost getting hit himself, calling out apologies behind him for both him and Sherlock as the car’s rattled driver shouted after them.

He didn’t slow until he’d caught up. Worriedly he scanned Sherlock. The omega was breathing hard, bent at the waist, hands resting on his knees.

“I’ve got the cab number.”

“Good for you.”

Hearing his sponsor's unimpressed response, John figured Sherlock couldn’t have been too badly damaged from his collision. Then he saw Sherlock bring his hands up to his temples. Reassessing his previous evaluation, he stepped forward to catch Sherlock in case he toppled over. It only took him a moment, drawing closer, however, to realize the omega was consulting some internal map; if Sherlock’s mumblings were anything to go on.

“Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights.”

Then, just like that, Sherlock was off again, dashing down the pavement, knocking into pedestrians. Seeing his omega take off like this immediately kicked John’s instincts to pursue into overdrive and he was after Sherlock like a shot, dropping apologies for both of them as he wove through the walk’s other occupants.

John’s heart pounded with exertion and exhilaration as he followed Sherlock down alleys, up stairs and rusting fire escapes, to rooftops.

In early times, it had been tradition for alpha’s to ritually “hunt” their prospective omega partners, proving their worth by capturing their mates in flight. Seeing Sherlock cover the terrain like some rare breed of urban antelope stirred this primal part of John. The old blood of alpha ancestors thrummed within his veins.

While Sherlock knew the purpose of this route was to catch up to the taxi carrying the murderer, some other part of him he’d not known existed before suddenly opened up. A thrill filled him he’d never experienced, even during his best cases. He darted a look back over his shoulder to see John hot on his heels. His heart faltered when the alpha stumbled, John’s body adjusting to its revived gait.

“Come on, John!” he shouted, encouraging.

Every muscle in Sherlock’s body reveled in the stretch and the burn of the race. Grabbing rails, hurtling over: it was glorious and impossible to determine which felt better in the moment, the chase or being chased.

Struggling a bit to keep up, John  damned Sherlock’s long legs until he saw the omega hurdle a break between rooftops with gazelle-like grace. The beauty of it stopped him short. Which was unfortunate, because it gave him a chance to actually peer down between the buildings and realize if he failed to span this, just how far he’d plummet.

Then his ears caught the exquisite breathlessness calling to him from up ahead. “Come on, John. We’re losing him!”

At this moment, John could give a fuck if they lost the murderer, but something within him roared at the possibility of being separated from the source of that voice.

He made a quick adjustment to the gun in his waistband, ensuring  it was secure. Then, forgetting the distance between solid surfaces and the shortness of his own legs, without another thought, John backed up and braced himself. He took off at a mad run and leapt.  Breath caught between the fear of falling and the fantastic sensation of flight, he was jarred back into breathing when he landed heavily on the other side of the gap.

Something within him cracked wide opened as his feet continued to pound over the rooftops.

Up here, it was just he and Sherlock, unfettered by the critical eye of others. No fear of being called out in his pursuit as a feral alpha.The sense of freedom was glorious and it stayed with him, even as they dropped back down to the streets.

Sherlock twisted and dodged through the alleys with an alacrity that would have put a rabbit to shame. Operating on his internal autopilot, following his mental GPS, he'd almost forgotten the point of this route until he saw the taxi pull ahead of him and turn off down another street.

“Damn!”

He adjusted his mind map to account for the cab’s new trajectory, barely breaking stride.

“This way!”

Having seen the cab now himself, John was caught between his desire to catch what his omega wanted and to catch his omega.

“No, this way!”

There was that voice again. Not an alpha voice, but that didn’t make it any less powerful. John altered his path immediately. On this flatter terrain his stride turned into a military jaunt. He’d almost caught up when to his horror, in front of him, Sherlock careened out of an alley and into the taxi's path.

John's stomach twisted, sickened, hearing his omega’s body collide into the taut metal of another bonnet. Tires screeched, the car barely stopped before Sherlock popped up again. He pulled a something from his pocket with one hand and flashed it at the cabbie; his other simultaneously flung open the rear door of the cab.

“Police! Open her up!”

John knew he should be surprised to see Sherlock waving a badge, but oddly he wasn’t. It was the darkness that flashed across Sherlock's face as he stared into the back of the cab disconcerted John far more. A few short steps took him to his sponsor’s side just in time to hear the omega snort in disgust.

“No.

“Teeth, tan: what – Californian?... L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived.”

It took John a moment to realize Sherlock was still talking, too distracted by the wondrous sound of the omega’s panting breaths between syllables. “How can you possibly know that?”

“The luggage.” Sherlock nodded down to the beta passenger’s case on the floor at the stunned man’s feet bearing it’s  LAX-LHR travel tag. “It’s probably your first trip to London, right?” Pale eyes glanced up accusingly into the rearview mirror, simultaneously addressing passenger and driver both, “going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you.”

“Sorry – are you guys the police?”

Hanging back slightly, John felt a flush of sympathy for the obviously dislocated beta.

“Yeah.” Continuing his charade Sherlock quickly flashed the ID badge again. “Everything all right?”

John admired the balls of his sponsor, disregarding the beta’s anxious expression while he affirmed he was okay, Sherlock carrying on as though he normally pulled over cabs for no reason every day.

“Welcome to London.” Without another word, Sherlock strode off again leaving John and the taxi’s passenger blinking dumbly after him.

_How the hell am I supposed to follow that act?_

John stepped up closer to the cab. “Er... Any problems, just let us know.” After a friendly nod of dismissal and softly closing the cab door, he trotted over to rejoin his sponsor.

Sherlock stopped at his arrival, his expression just short of despondent.

“Basically just a cab that happened to slow down?” John offered, the disappointment on Sherlock’s face almost too painful to behold.

“Basically.”

“So... not the murderer?”

“Not the murderer, no,” Sherlock snorted.

The look of “alpha idiot” on Sherlock’s face would have normally irked John, but at the moment it was a definite improvement, opposed to his omega’s previous state. Not wanting his sponsor to slip back into his terrible disappointment, John couldn’t help but goad.

“Wrong country. Good alibi.”

“As they go…”

Sherlock’s tone was flat, but John felt sure he saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

Dropping his eyes, he noted Sherlock still held the badge in his elegant, gloved fingers; gripping it with his thumb over the ID’s picture. John reached for it, completely unaware of how: securing Sherlock’s hand with one of his own, encircling the omega’s wrist where bare skin flashed between glove and sleeve. Both ignored the shiver that tremored Sherlock’s lean frame as John's other hand plucked the badge from him.

“Hey, where-where did you get this?” John didn’t loosen his hold on Sherlock’s wrist immediately, instead he flipped the badge holder open.

Blue eyes widened. Seeing the name of the badge’s true owner, his grip on Sherlock dropped away.  

“Right… Detective Inspector Donovan...” John stepped to the side and squinted at Sherlock. "Yeah... You definitely look like a Sally. Family name is it?"

"Ummm... Cherished," Sherlock deadpanned. "Unfortunately."

“Been ill recently? You look a bit peaked compared to your picture.” John turned the badge towards Sherlock and flashed the photo. “Though I’d recognize those cheekbones anywhere.”

Sherlock sighed as though incredibly burdened. “Well, that’s the curse of omega beauty,”

“Wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock drawled, tipping his nose up in false haughtiness.

“Oi!” John feigned a wounded expression, which would have been far more successful if he’d been able to keep his face straight.

Sherlock shot him the rare smile back. “I pickpocket her when she’s annoying.” He nodded to the badge. “You can keep that one. As you might imagine, given my impetus for taking them; I’ve got plenty at the flat.

“Though if you intend to use it, as I do.” Sherlock indicated how he'd covered the photo with his thumb so that only a sliver of the DI's dark mane was visible. “You’ll have to do something with that hair of yours. Since in addition to cheekbones, Sally and I also share a natural curl.”

The wry humor in Sherlock’s voice, only made John's grin wider. Of course it helped that he was high on carbs and endorphins.

_Skulls, murder, kidnapping, rooftop chases, stealing badges, impersonating law officers… this has to be the most insane day I’ll ever have in my life._

The fact that John found this notion slightly disappointing made him snicker. Sherlock tilted his head, stunned by the quiet noises.

_Is it possible my alpha is actually giggling?_

Out of a hundred different responses he could have imagined his sponsee having to his theft, to this whole evening in fact, this tittering like a school boy was nowhere on his list. He wondered if John was having a breakdown.

Then John looked up from the stolen badge and Sherlock saw the laughter had crept all the way up into the alpha’s impossible summer-sky eyes.

_Oh._

Something inside him fluttered frantically. He wanted to whip his phone out and take a picture of John in that instant. Capture this expression, study it at length. Instead he quietly cleared his throat.

“What?”

John, however, was not about to lose his good humor. “Nothing, just…” It had been too bloody long since he’d felt this light.  “Welcome to London.” He laughed again, pulling Sherlock into the moment with him.

At last Sherlock joined in with a chuckle of his own, at least until he spotted their highjacked taxi parked up the block. There, the beta tourist was gesturing to a real police office and Sherlock was suddenly  reminded in addition to all his other tiny trespasses, he was out with a covert, gun-toting alpha after curfew.

“Got your breath back?”

John wasn’t sure if Sherlock meant from their earlier run, or from his laughing fit. Once he glanced over, following his sponsor’s gaze, he realized it didn’t matter: it was time to go. “Ready when you are.”

A strange euphoria filled Sherlock when he saw John slip Sally’s badge into the pocket of his jacket.

“Keep up then!” He grinned and took off at a long-strided lope. A tightly closed bud long held in the center of Sherlock's chest began to uncurl at the patter of John’s rapid footfalls behind him. Taxed as his London-filled lungs quickly became, Sherlock couldn’t ever recall breathing freer.

* * *

Despite the late hour and their supposedly sleeping den mother, Sherlock and John fell into the foyer of 221 with a clatter. Breathing equally heavy, John stripped out of his coat, settling it on a wall hook, while Sherlock casually draped his shucked great-coat over the bottom bannister.

Sherlock stopped then, turning to watch John as the alpha leaned back against the wall at the base of the stairs, sides heaving beneath his jumper. He caught himself inhaling deeply. Their run through the misty night had worn off the neutralizer and the moment John had doffed his coat, the spicy scent of his sweat filled his sensitive nose.

Not only that, but John was truly happy, and the way this swirled around him was intoxicating.

Sherlock pulled off his gloves and clenched his fists against the urge to pull off the alpha’s jumper, investigate how much more potent John’s scent was closer to his skin. While he managed to hold himself back from doing this, he found himself suddenly leaning up against the wall beside John, their bodies parallel, just shy of touching.

The remnants of John’s desert tan glowed under the light, but nowhere near as bright as his smile.

“Okay, all that was ridiculous.” John grinned wider around his still stuttering breath. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” His good humor was contagious, pulling chuckles from Sherlock.

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

This comment had just the effect Sherlock hoped, in that it got John giggling again. A wonderful sound, he’d decided. While not the stereotypical, low rumbling alpha laugh that was supposed to belie suppressed aggression, within his fine leather shoes Sherlock’s toes instinctively curled. It also led him to picture John as a pup: sharp-eyed, mischievous, no doubt adorable.

_Adorable? Where the hell did that word come from?_

Fortunately, John’s voice derailed this disastrous train of thought. “That wasn’t just me.”

Despite Sherlock’s unease, this set both of them laughing again.

John inhaled deeply, trying to get his breath back, only to realize their recent run had a similar effect on Sherlock’s suppressed scent as well. Between the lingering high of the chase and the laughter, the Baker St. entry was thick with pheromones.

Unfortunately for both men, since Sherlock had deleted so much early history, and John was simply not paying attention to the parallels of their evening, neither was conscious that they’d just re-enacted the traditional alpha/omega courting ritual of English ancients.

There was a shared meal with the alpha feeding its prospective omega; the omega leading a chase with the alpha following; the capture of the omega by the alpha signified with a light touch at a scent point; the offer of a token from the omega demonstrating its approval of its prospective alpha; and then another chase ending at the omega’s nest.

The only missing part of this instinctual cycle now was the claiming.

John didn’t know what happened but as their laughter tapered off, something shifted within him. He was left with the distinct impression he was missing something. A strange itch began to form just beneath the surface of his skin.

_Sherlock brought us back to his nest… Why? Are we done for the night? The killer’s still out there._

“Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?”

Next to John, Sherlock had been experiencing similar sensations. He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway.”

It was hard for John not to lean forward and snuffle the thin wrist gracefully wafting the air before him.

“So, if Billy and Angelo could have kept a lookout, close as it is. Why were we there so long?”

The scent surrounding John was still content, but it had suddenly gotten thicker somehow, almost tangibly heavy. Sherlock found himself having a difficult time swallowing. He cleared his throat.

“Oh, just passing the time.”

This brought a thoughtful frown to John’s face. “But before we left, you said there was no time… Not even to call the police.” He tipped his head to the side, suddenly trying to figure out how it was he’d forgotten this.

John’s comment reminded Sherlock that he’d an ulterior motive for their little excursion.

_How did I forget that?_

Glancing down at John’s right side, his disquiet at this uncharacteristic lapse of focus evaporated when Sherlock saw, regardless, his goal had been obtained. He looked back up to catch John’s eye, fighting hard to bite back a smile.

“Well… I also hoped to prove a point.”

“What point?”

John tipped his head a little bit farther as he asked this and Sherlock found he couldn’t look away from the still thrumming pulse visible along the alpha’s throat.

The silk of his voice was unusually rough.

“You.”

“Oh?”

“Yes... I don’t think you’ll find the idea of having a room upstairs quite so concerning in the future.”

The way Sherlock worded this sent John’s blood rushing southward. He wondered if it was possible something in their evening had caused his new sponsor to change his mind about parameters of their sponsorship. If Sherlock had, even if had been within his right to do so, John wasn’t of the mind to object at the moment.

“Says who?”

Rather than offer himself as John anticipated, Sherlock cast his gaze towards front entrance. “Says the man at the door.”

If Sherlock wasn’t astounding enough, the omega apparently had the gift of precognition as well. John was stunned to hear three crisp raps sound at the door. His head straightened, but his face didn’t lose its puzzled expression. Given a slight nod from Sherlock he headed over to open it.

The shift in proximity the moment John moved away, carrying the fullness of his scent with him, Sherlock was gripped with a strong sense of loss. Unexpected and slightly terrifying, it made him want to dash upstairs and hide in his room. However, putting more distance between himself and John at the moment seemed impossible.

Sherlock was at a loss, he had no point of reference for this sensation. He tipped his dark head back against the wall and let out a slow breath, as he struggled to regroup.

In the meantime, John had opened the door cautiously, only to encounter Billy and a leashed Angelo out on the stoop.

Billy shot him a grin. “Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this.”

Angelo grinned even wider and held up John’s cane. John took it from him, blinking like it was the first time he’d ever seen it.

“I would have just sent Angelo,” Billy explained. “But curfew, you know…”

Angelo nodded in agreement. “Tell Mr. Holmes not to worry though. We left my sister Teresa on lookout.”

John’s gaze flickered down to his leg… His un-aching leg. A leg that had just recently hurtled him across rooftops.

“Ah…”

The enormity of this left him momentarily dumbstruck. He cast a look back at his sponsor, who just gave him an uneasy grin. John cleared his throat, his eyes burned. Quickly he turned away from Sherlock, his words flooding back to him.

“Er, thank you. Thank you.”

Closing the door behind him after offering the appropriate goodbyes, he stood for several moments staring at Sherlock.

“I told you at least once this evening you were amazing… Right?”

The emotion in John’s open face was too much; far beyond anything Sherlock expected from his little experiment. Overwhelmed, he dropped his eyes and ran the toe of one shoe over the worn carpet.

“And I told you it was psychosomatic.”

“Ummmmm.” John murmured returning to hold up the wall alongside him. “Physician heal thyself and all that?”

Sherlock tilted his head, John was obviously referencing something. He supposed whatever it was, he must have deleted it.

“And what about you?”

Sherlock righted himself, his eyes questioning. “What do you mean?”

John shrugged, regarding him from the corner of his eye. “Well, that’s some pretty good doctoring on your part, but don’t you suppose it’s my turn now.”

“What are you talking about, John?”

“You _were_ actually hit by a car tonight, Sherlock. _Twice_.”

Sherlock snorted at this. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t know that,” John countered turning around to face him, his expression serious. “All that adrenaline coursing through you.”

Having said this outloud now, John’s alpha instincts were clamoring to strip his omega down and give Sherlock’s body a thorough going over to make sure that the man indeed was truly uninjured.

The soft but firm way John had gripped his wrist earlier returned to Sherlock and he suddenly  wondered what the alpha’s hands might feel like on the rest of his skin. Panic flooded him.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I know my own transport!”

Sherlock grit his teeth realizing that rather than strident he sounded far more petulant.

“Besides, if I was truly injured, you would have smelled it on me long before now.”

John stared at him from under blond brows, his expression clearly concerned but he remained silent. Finally Sherlock dropped his eyes unable to hold the alpha’s gaze.

“You and I both know you’re heavily suppressed, Sherlock.” John’s voice was maddeningly kind. “Some things are better hidden than others.”

“Well, come here and scent me then, if you're so determined! A close scour should tell you enough, even through my medication!”

The challenge in Sherlock’s voice took them both aback. Gray eyes flickered up and Sherlock felt something curl in on itself, seeing how unhappy John looked.

John was doing his best to remain calm, but he was beside himself. His inner alpha now worked into a frenzy, wanting to make sure Sherlock was okay. It was clear to him, however, just how much his suggestion triggered his omega. Physical wounding smelled different than emotional, and emotion bled through suppression far more easily.

Right now the air around Sherlock was turning metallic with distress.

“Come on, John, scent me!” Sherlock demanded, stripping off his weighted scarf at last. “It’s obvious your alpha instincts are not going to be settled now until you do.”

John fought not to growl. “It could have less to do with me being an alpha, than the fact that I am a medical professional.” Even as he said these words, he took a careful step closer.

At the same time, Sherlock tipped his chin up ever so slightly, as he exhaled: “Idiot alpha.”

They kept their gazes locked until John stood just beside him. Sherlock was shocked when John dropped his eyes and closed them. The alpha leaned in carefully, making sure not to touch at all, anywhere.

Sherlock felt warm breath at his left ear. John moved in to scent the juncture of his jaw, avoiding the bonding glands at the base of the neck. Standing front to front and so close, Sherlock found his senses swimming in John.

He’d never smelled anything like it before. His fear fled him as his mind raced to catalog every nuance of the alpha’s signature. So complex and so bloody good; it took him back to his very first hit of cocaine.

Against his will, Sherlock's eyelids dropped shut. His body tensed; the increase of heat against his own skin informing him John had moved just a little bit closer. He braced himself for tongue or teeth but there was nothing. Just the soft sound of a deep inhale.

After another quiet sniff from his alpha, Sherlock felt his body begin to miraculously unwind itself. At least, until John’s breath whispered against his skin. “You’re going to be sore tomorrow.”

Sherlock tensed and bit back a whimper. An exasperated puff of hot breath tickled the underside of his ear in way he found extraordinary.

“I’m talking about bruises from the bonnets, Sherlock. Relax.”

It was said so softly, but Sherlock’s inner omega responded to the quiet command of it. Suddenly he wondered what words would feel like when they left John’s mouth, hummed into his flesh. 

His alpha was still so close, he only needed to turn his head just the slightest bit, and Sherlock knew his jaw would brush against John’s lips.

He’d all but worked up the courage to do it when Mrs. Hudson’s tearful voice shattered the spell.

“Sherlock, what have you done?!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn... Cock-blocked by Mrs. Hudson. Tsk.
> 
> Don't worry. There will be more sparks before this story ends... And by that I mean sex of some sort. Heh.
> 
> Anyways, I am forever appreciative of all the kudos and am amazed at how many hits this story has gotten. More than anything, however, I really want to thank those of you who have been kind enough to leave comments. It means so much. Really. 
> 
> Hope those of you who celebrate it, have a great Thanksgiving.


	13. Home Invasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the new chapter. Hooray!
> 
> I don't know if any of you ever read these chapters more than once. If you do, you've probably noted I continue to edit pretty heavily for about the next 24hrs. So, if you read it once and then come back and find it's changed, that's why. And if typos bother you as much as they do me, you might want to wait a bit after you get notification of one my chapters before you read it.
> 
> Just saying...
> 
> I go the hell over these but it reads so different in every format and there's always something I miss or that doesn't sound quite right. Sometimes I need the distance of a day to figure it out. I know I should hold back and get this all squared away beforehand, but once that last word's typed, I get too eager.
> 
> OCD sucks sometimes, but at least I have this creative outlet for it. Heh.

* * *

Being this close to Sherlock, breathing him in, was like everything else John had experienced since meeting him: _Extraordinary._ The complexity of the man’s signature, stifled as it was, sent him reeling. John had been with numerous omegas over the course of his life but none of them, even at the height of their heats, ever smelled as enticing as the one now standing before him.

Still high from their hunt, what bled through Sherlock’s suppression was hot and wet and so very, very raw…

_Steady, Watson… Remember why you’re scenting him._

It took every ounce of self-control John had not to lean in and trace the underside of Sherlock’s earlobe with the bridge of his nose. He bit down hard on his tongue to keep from flickering it out, pressing the tip against that elegant throat, tasting the mad pulse pounding just beneath Sherlock’s pale skin.

Pulling another deep breath, John fisted his hands at his sides.

While his medical olfaction had always been acute, he was amazed to realize he could actually detect the blood pooling in the various places where Sherlock was bruised.

_Oh…_

And gathering elsewhere.

Hauling his focus back to general state of his omega’s health, John knew Sherlock would no doubt suffer in the morning. Thankfully there was no scent indication that any of his injuries were serious.

“You’re going to be sore tomorrow.”

He hadn’t intended for his voice come out as husky as it did. Sherlock’s agitated aroma spiked at this comment, unease curled sulphuric around the magic of his signature.

 _Fuck_...

It was almost impossible to reconcile the depth of Sherlock’s fear now with the man John had watched at the crime scene, beheld leaping across rooftops, and throwing himself in front of cars. Still, there was no denying the truth in Sherlock’s scent. His omega’s terror filled his nose, making him want to sneeze. Rather than pull away, John bit this back, endured the sting, and held his position.

He damned himself for not being more careful in his wording; Sherlock’s reaction only verifying his growing suspicions.

“I’m talking about bruises from the bonnets, Sherlock. Relax.” John smoothed out his voice and kept his tone low and soothing.

There was nothing more he wanted to do more in this minute then to wrap his arms around the lean body in front of him and draw it in tight. The pull burned bright inside him to drape his body over Sherlock’s like a shield. But no matter how much the alpha within him yearned to, there was no way he could touch Sherlock right now; especially since John understood in this instant, he was the very thing his new omega wanted shelter from.

John’s heart broke a little bit right then, but somehow the feeling only made him more determined.

So, he remained as he was, perfectly still. He matched his breathing with Sherlock’s and then began to gradually slow his breaths. John’s fists uncurled and a silent purr filled him when his omega unconsciously synced their breathing. Sherlock’s respiration became slower, deeper. The air around them lightened and then pulsed heavy again as another emotion grew stronger than his fear.

At the uptick in Sherlock’s burgeoning arousal John’s blood suddenly burned a centigrade hotter. Pressed so close, he knew that if he tipped his head down the tiniest bit, his lips would brush against the scent point at Sherlock’s jaw…

 _Serve, protect, provide..._ John’s internal alpha chanted.

He reminded himself that so early on in his sponsorship there was nothing more important than showing his omega that he could be trusted. But at the same time, though he’d only known Sherlock for a few hours really, there was another word burring in the dark recesses of his mind; a word that had been forbidden to alphas for centuries now.

_Mmmmiii..._

“Sherlock, what have you done?!”

John started at Mrs. Hudson’s exclamation; her voice pulled him back from the brink. There was no mistaking the older omega’s clear distress; so his relief at being delivered from temptation was quickly replaced by concern. Sherlock’s reaction was just as immediate: his dark head snapped up, dilated pupils shrinking almost immediately. Mrs. Hudson stood at the top of the stairs, just outside his apartment door wringing her hands.

“Mrs Hudson?”

She’d obviously just stepped out of his flat. Her large eyes met his and she shook her head.

“I tried to keep them out of your nest, Sherlock. But they wouldn’t be stopped!”

In an instant Sherlock bounded up the stairs, pushing past her into his flat.

While, like most omegas,he was very sensitive to invasions of his den, whether he was aware of it or not, so closely following their first scenting and with where he and John were in terms of their unconscious courtship; the very idea someone _not them_ in his nest threw him into a frenzy.

“What are you doing?!”

It wasn’t Sherlock’s shout, however, that caused the sudden halt to the activity taking place within his flat as much as the furious growl rumbling within John’s chest that followed immediately after. Fast on his sponsor’s heels, John was in a similar state. He’d bristled instantly, seeing Sherlock’s space filled with a team of alpha officers.

DI Donovan sat at the center of the storm, in what John had already internally determined was Sherlock’s favorite chair. The inspector had a handkerchief pressed to her nose. At his snarl, Donovan’s hand dropped in surprise. Taking in the scents swirling around Sherlock and John, her dark eyes widened. Flickering between the two men, her expression flashed from shock to disgust.

Sherlock stormed over to her, livid. He repeated the question again with no less vehemence.

“What are you doing?!”

Donovan held her ground, schooling her initially startled features into something much more smug. She smirked up at him, nodding to the pink suitcase in front of her.

“Well, I knew you’d find the case. I’m not as stupid as you seem to think.”

Sherlock’s expression clearly said he thought otherwise, but instead of dwelling on this, instead he addressed his desecrated nest.

“You can’t just break into my flat!”

“And you can’t withhold evidence!” Donovan snapped back.

Her patience had been worn thin by the fact she still felt queasy. It didn’t help any that word of her new condition had already spread amongst her ranks and all her alpha underlings were already trying to baby her. And now there was this wrinkle to add to her list: Sherlock having brought a covert alpha to her scene earlier.

Her gaze shifted to John glaring at him pointedly as other information that should not have been withheld. Donovan looked away from the undercover alpha, glancing around the chaos her team had created; then she returned to meet Sherlock’s furious eyes evenly.

“And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Well, what do you call this then?”

This was not the first time Donovan’s team had been here. She’d been surprised to see how much more orderly things were. Discovering that Sherlock’s “colleague” was an alpha, now she knew why.

From the way the pair smelled to her pregnancy-sensitized nose upon their entrance to the flat, they were obviously and appalling involved. Despite this, Donovan knew Sherlock couldn’t have had his alpha long and wondered how much “John Watson,” if that was his real name, knew about his new sponsor.

Not that it mattered.

Sherlock had humiliated her earlier, disgraced her in front of her team and her own unacknowledged alpha. Turnabout was fair play in her opinion. Adopting an innocent expression she batted her eyes at him, her tone was far from innocent, however.

“It’s a drugs bust.”

Despite the fury that welled within John at his sponsor’s nest invasion, he’d also been acutely aware his gun was still lodged within the band of his trousers. With all the officers in the room, even now it weighed incredibly heavy there beneath his jumper. Because of this, he’d stood himself down.

Besides, Sherlock seemed intent on handling the situation and John knew he should defer. However, hearing the DI impune his omega’s reputation, he couldn’t keep himself restrained any longer.

“Seriously?! This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!”

He was so incensed he hardly registered Sherlock stepping up to him to lay an uneasy hand on his forearm.

“John…”

The strangely timid tone in Sherlock’s voice and the way the omega nervously chewed at his lip was completely lost on John, his attention focused so completely on the Inspector.

“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational!”

“John, you probably want to shut up now.”

This was said louder but it was the sharp squeeze on his arm that finally caught John’s notice. He turned to Sherlock, not understanding at all why the man chose now to suddenly become reticent.

“Yeah, but come on, Sherlock _?_ _Seriously_ …”

Blue eyes met gray, searching. Within the stormy depths of his sponsor’s eyes, in an instant, John read a silent and terrible history. Sherlock’s shame and his misery wrenched John’s soul in a way he’d never experienced, not even when he’d held the gaze of the soldiers who’d died in his arms.

“No...”

Sherlock had already ascertained, despite his trauma-filled life, John Watson, for some unknown reason, remained determined to see the best in people. Despite knowing this, he still found himself stunned when the alpha hadn’t immediately accepted Sally’s declaration.

Seeing the disbelief stubbornly etched on John’s face, Sherlock’s guts twisted.

“What?” He challenged. Surely his new alpha had been with him long enough now to have gained a clear understanding of just what a wretched creature he truly was.

_Apparently not._

“You?”

The way John breathed the word, a bolt of ice pierced Sherlock’s core. This was where he’d lose him. All the wonderful words John had said throughout the evening erased in a moment, never to return. Sherlock couldn’t bear to hear what John would say now.

“Shut up!” The command was hissed through gritted teeth.

Looking back at Sally, Sherlock understood she considered the night’s earlier disruption of her power restored. However, he was not about to let her pick the reins back up so quickly. He nodded down to the pink case that sat open in front of her.

“I’m not your sniffer dog.”

“No, Anderson‘s _my_ sniffer dog.”

Now that Sherlock had been shamed in front of his new alpha, Donovan had no difficulty acknowledging her own. She tipped her head towards the kitchen.

“What?... Anderson?...”

One of the half-closed panel doors to the kitchen slid open to reveal, not just Anderson, but several other alpha officers. All who had been quietly standing there, no doubt reveling in Sherlock’s shaming.

Anderson lifted a hand in mock greeting. The expression on his face unbearably satisfied. Any residual shame Sherlock may have been holding incinerated at the sight of the forensic alpha.

“Anderson?!” What are you doing here on a drugs bust?”

The was no mistaking the triumphant snarl in Anderson’s voice. “Oh, I volunteered.”

Sally settled herself more comfortably in the chair her officers had all but demanded she take.

“They all did,” she coolly informed Sherlock, pleased with the impact of her words. “They’re not, _strictly speaking_ , on the drugs squad... But they’re very keen.”

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from snarling himself, his eyes traveling back and forth between Sally and the alphas now moving about his kitchen again. His eyes widened in shock when Lestrade popped into view from behind the other partially-pulled panel door holding a jar.

“Are these human eyes?”

Despite the question in his tone, there was no mistaking the clear conviction on the sergeant's face. Sherlock had no doubt, knowing Lestrade as he did, that the alpha had more likely joined the search party to keep him in check, rather than torment, as Anderson had.

It didn’t make the betrayal sting any less, however.

“Put those back!”

“They were in the microwave.” Lestrade’s tone held more apology than accusation.

“It’s an experiment which you’ve no doubt ruined now.” Sherlock glared at Lestrade until the alpha dropped his eyes and moved to return the ones in his hand to their original location.

The sight and subsequent discussion of eyeballs, in addition to the concentrated alpha scent that filled Sherlock’s nest, particularly the unhappy waves rolling of Holmes’ alpha, was finally more than Donovan’s stomach could take, even with Anderson’s handkerchief pressed to her nose.

She rose from the chair and darted into the kitchen, her stride carrying her as quickly as was decent. She turned to Lestrade as she passed him,“I am putting you in charge, Sergeant.”

Hiding her sickness behind the handkerchief Donovan shouted, “Keep looking, guys!”

Lestrade watched his boss make a beeline for the bathroom, shooing out the officer searching there. As soon as the door closed, he sighed and moved over beside Sherlock.

“Or... you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down.”

Sherlock ignored Lestrade’s conciliatory tone. “This is childish!”

“Well, maybe the Inspector thinks she’s dealing with a child.” Lestrade gave a weary shake of his silvered head. “Your behavior seems to back her up.”

Seeing that this was not registering with the omega at all, Lestrade slipped some alphic authority into his words.

“Sherlock, this is the Yard’s case. I let you in, and I had to buck my superior to do that. You know what that’s cost me? You do _not _ go off on your own. Clear?

It was not the content of Lestrade’s words, but their tone that stopped Sherlock’s angry pacing. “Oh, what? So you get out of the doghouse by helping your boss set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

Lestrade’s dark eyes flickered guiltily from Sherlock to John. It wasn’t right what the Inspector did, but Sherlock’s new alpha had the right to be in the know about his sponsor.

“It stops being pretend if they find anything.”

“I am clean!” Sherlock all but shouted, Lestrade’s caution almost as painful as John’s disappointment.

Lestrade eyed him hopefully. “Is your flat? All of it?” The last thing he wanted was to have to take Sherlock in.

Sherlock huffed out an exasperated breath. “I don’t even smoke now.”

He rolled up his sleeve flashing his arm, making sure as he did that John saw too and would hopefully note, however unwillingly, he’d followed his new alpha’s admonishment and now only sported a single patch. In an attempt at re-aligning himself with the still highly agitated omega, Lestrade pulled up both jacket and sleeve on one arm to display a patch of his own.

“Ah, well, neither do I.”

It was an uncommon vice for an alpha. Not many sponsors were willing to indulge one with such a habit like Lestrade’s ex-mate had. The revelation didn’t impress Sherlock in the least, however, since he’d deduced the sergeant’s attempt to quit weeks ago. He rolled his eyes and turned away, righting his sleeve in the process.

While it was obvious to Lestrade that Sherlock was far from soothed, the omega’s hackles had clearly begun to settle a bit.

“So work with me here, Sherlock.” Seeing that he was making headway he strategically dropped, ‘“Oh… By the way… We’ve found Rachel.”

John had been watching all the drama from the edge of the room. The subtly skillful way Lestrade handled Sherlock was not lost on him. He found himself slowly moving closer to his sponsor: the older alpha’s obviously established relationship with Sherlock triggering his alphic “rival response.”

Both alphas’ maneuverings were lost of Sherlock: all the omega’s attention pulled to this new bit of information.

“Who is she?”

“ _Rachel_ is Jennifer Wilson’s only child.”

Lestrade’s reply left Sherlock frowning. “Her child? Why would she write her pup’s name? Why?”

Donovan had emerged from the loo and made her way back to the front room. Her returned presence immediately incited another alphic display, this time from Anderson.

“Never mind the note. We found the case.” He pointed accusingly at the pink case open in front of the chair Donovan had occupied. “According to _someone_ , the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath.”

The repetition of the Inspector’s label, parroted by her annoyingly smitten seeder did not impress Sherlock in the least and he was quick to snap: “I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath!”

He shot a look over to Donovan as well. “Do your research.”

Sherlock returned to Lestrade. “You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her.”

Aggravated at being dismissed, Donovan gave a soft huff beneath her handkerchief. “She’s dead.”

“Excellent!”

John was not the only one left bug-eyed Sherlock’s exclamation. The subject of the room’s stunned scrutiny however, seemed completely unaware of this. Sherlock pointedly continued to ignore Donovan and instead began interrogating Lestrade.

“How, when, and why?” Stepping away from the sergeant and unconsciously closer to John, Sherlock mumbled more to himself than anyone, “Is there a connection?... There has to be.”

Lestrade’s dark eyes carefully tracked Sherlock, watching the omega’s mind spin.

“Well, I doubt it, since she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. _Rachel_ was Jennifer Wilson’s only child. She was stillborn fourteen years ago.”

Hearing this, John’s heart clenched. Infertility among betas was common, but that didn’t make it any less painful for its sufferers. All of a sudden, he had a much better understanding of Wilson’s adultery: no doubt the woman had been seeking something to fill the void left behind by her loss.

While John was saddened, Sherlock was merely confused. He looked to his alpha not understanding.

“No, that’s ... that’s not right. How ... Why would she do that? Why?”

Anderson piped up from the kitchen, his voice filled with cruel disdain, “Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?!” He shook his shaggy head. “Yup – sociopath; I’m seeing it now.”

“She didn’t think about her daughter.” Sherlock whirled to face the forensic alpha. “She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt!”

Sherlock began to pace. There was something here he was clearly missing.

His omega’s agitation stirred John’s desire to help. More than this, he wanted everyone’s disapproving attention diverted from his sponsor. He cast his mind back through everything Sherlock had rambled about the killer over the course of the evening.

Even though he hadn’t been called upon to speak, John cleared his throat and jumped in.

“You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he ... I don’t know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and stared hard at him.

“Yes,” he huffed. “But that was ages ago... Why would she still be upset?”

Now it was John’s turn to stare, looking to see if Sherlock was serious. His stomach dropped and his heart bled seeing the innocence in Sherlock’s expression.

_God help him. So much for diverting attention._

As an omega, his sponsor had just committed a mortal sin because, despite their elevated position, at the base of societal perception, omegan identity was still inextricably tied to their ability to conceive and carry offspring.

John understood the culturally enforced myths: that every omega wanted pups, and that every omega would be automatically in love with, and deeply, emotionally connected to his or her children from the moment of conception. Still, he’d never witnessed these ideals so perfectly shattered as his own omega had just so effortlessly done.

All the other alphas had been rendered frozen initially by Sherlock’s question. Now they moved silently, Anderson at the fore, to encircle their newly-carrying Inspector, as if there was some contagion in Sherlock’s words they needed to protect her from.

Only Lestrade and John remained where they’d stood.

Sherlock caught this motion and his brow furrowed. He was just as perplexed by the sudden swell of new scents swirling in the air as he was by why Wilson would hold so tightly to a daughter she’d never known.

The smell of disapproval was choking and John’s face the only one in the room that didn’t hold a terrible condemnation. Not that the sadness there was really any more preferable. Sherlock fought the sudden urge to go tuck himself under the alpha’s chin and hide his face in John’s chest while he begged forgiveness for whatever strange transgression he’d committed.

Instead of doing this, however, he dipped his head and looked up at his alpha from under long lashes.

“Not good?”

While it might have seemed a paltry display to some, John knew already from his time with Sherlock how huge this deference was. And if he’d had any question about it, a quick glance over at Lestrade’s wide-eyed wonder just confirmed it. John shot a challenging look at the other alphas in the room before taking a step towards his sponsor. Wanting to reward Sherlock for seeking him out, he kept his tone light.

“Bit not good. Yeah.”

It was amazing the effect these words had on his sponsor. Gray eyes brightened immediately and Sherlock moved closer to John until they were standing nearly toe to toe. He drew a deep breath pulling in the scent of John’s acceptance. It was a gust of spring rain in the midst of the other alphas’ creosotic judgement.

“But if you were dying…” Sherlock didn’t dare take his eyes off John. “If you’d been murdered... In your very last few seconds what would you say?”

He was surprised by the immediacy of his alpha’s reply.

“Please, God, let me live.”

Given the amount of time John put into it, Sherlock knew he could have hardly expected the answer to be original. Still, he couldn’t help but huff out a breath of disappointment.

“Oh, use your imagination, John!”

John didn’t move at all, but his posture instantly stiffened. There was a flash of hardness in those blue eyes that caught Sherlock off guard. Heat rush into his cheeks at the coolness in the alpha’s voice.

“I don’t have to.”

While he still wasn’t entirely clear on his transgression regarding Jennifer Wilson’s dead child, Sherlock understood the line he’d crossed here immediately: John was soldier, he’d been in battle, he’d been wounded. A mental picture of John bleeding out on Afghan sand flashed through his mind far too clearly. He dropped his eyes as he deleted it.

It took him a moment before he could bring himself to lift his chin and meet his alpha’s gaze again. When he did, Sherlock saw to his dismay, he’d inadvertently drawn John’s mind into a dangerous place. Based on his observation of his sponsee’s respiration, he knew it wouldn’t take much to trigger a PTSD attack in the man.

He needed to do something to keep John out of this.

“Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever…” Sherlock kept any tone of apology out of his voice, purposely trying to agitate. “Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers, she _was_ clever.”

Sherlock was pleased to see when he resumed his pacing, John’s focus had returned. Irritated blue eyes tracked him intently. Secure in the knowledge John was still with him, he returned to the puzzle of “Rachel.”

“She’s trying to tell us something.”

_It’s close now, so close…_

The answer was there, Sherlock could feel the ground of his mind’s garden pushing it up to the surface.

While he was processing, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the flat’s open door.

Once Sherlock and John had entered Sherlock’s den, she’d retreated to her own nest to regroup (and to change into something more suitable for police occupation). She’d hoped to remain there until all the commotion passed and she would have; if not for the disturbing and persistent beta man who’d shown up in the lower entry.

Hating to interrupt, Mrs. Hudson called out. “Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t order a taxi.” Sherlock snapped without breaking his pace. He didn’t even bother to look up in acknowledgement. “Go away!”

In response to Mrs. Hudson’s upset scent and Sherlock’s rudeness, John moved over to the elder omega. Her anxious eyes flickered from her pacing tenant to the rooms’ increased disarray.

“Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess.”

Mrs Hudson whispered worriedly to John, “What are they looking for?”

John set a cautious hand on the scent point of Mrs. Hudson’s wrist, relieved when she accepted this gesture of comfort.

“It’s a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson.”

The older omega tensed instantly but didn’t make any attempt to pull away. Her eyes had grown huge.

“But they’re just for my hip. They’re herbal soothers!”

Had the circumstances been any different, John would have found Mrs. Hudson’s pharmaceutical paranoia amusing. Right now, however, he just gave her wrist a light squeeze, hoping it might calm her.

The scent of distressed den mother adding to the tempest of other odors in his nest pushed Sherlock’s senses to their brink.

“Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think!” Sherlock’s voice was about as alphic as an omega’s could ever be. “Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off.”

Anderson still hadn’t fully recovered from the power of the shout. He stared, his expression incredulous. “What? My face is?!”

Donovan jumped in, not wanting her alpha to get caught in an altercation she’d have to write up. Plus, she’d seen that look on Sherlock before and as much as she hated to admit it, recognized he was close to one of his breakthroughs.

“Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” The forensic alpha was deeply stung to find his boss and bearer taking the other omega’s side.

Donovan saw his conflict and softened her voice. “Your back, now. Please.”

The gentle tone caught Anderson’s attention much more effectively than any shouting would have. He wasn’t happy about it, but he had already caused his omega enough embarrassment for one day. He dipped his head in submission to her and turned around with a sigh.

There was no telling how long this lull would last. In the stillness, Sherlock spurred his mind on.

“Come on, think. Quick!”

Darting a look over her shoulder, Mrs. Hudson saw the pushy cab driver heading for the stairs. There was no telling what sort of tantrum his appearance would incite in the state Sherlock was in. Knowing she was trespassing into dangerous territory she couldn’t help but ask: “What about your taxi?”

The answer was so close Sherlock could almost taste it. Then his den mother’s voice broke into his thoughts with her ridiculous notion that he’d called a taxi.

“MRS. HUDSON!”

Once again Sherlock’s voice roared alphic and even John’s gentle hand on her wrist couldn’t stop the older omega’s instinctive response at being so shouted at. John released her wrist immediately as Mrs. Hudson gave a muffled squeak and bolted out the door.

John was about to start some shouting of his own about Sherlock’s manners and his treatment of his den mother, but he stopped short when Sherlock exhaled a quiet “Oh.” His sponsor spun around and looked at him, eyes bright with sudden delight.

It was Mrs. Hudson’s comment about taxi’s that had flipped the switch.

“Ah! She was clever, clever, yes!” Sherlock began pacing again. “She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him.”

He could see the events unfurling like a cinema reel in his mind. “When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer.”

“But how?”

At Lestrade’s question the film playing before Sherlock bubbled and broke, leaving the screen blank. He looked back at the sergeant completely flummoxed.

“Wha...? What do you mean, how?”

Ever-articulate, the alpha replied with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

“Rachel!” Sherlock offered triumphantly.

That this received nothing but more blank looks stunned him.

“Don’t you see? _Rachel_!”

Nothing in the room shifted. Sherlock shook his head in amazement. Could they really not see it? Gaze shifting between John and Lestrade he laughed.

“Oh, look at you lot. All that alphic vacancy. It must be so relaxing.”

Realizing he was going to have to spell this out, Sherlock sighed. “Rachel is not a name.”

Patient as he was, Sherlock’s dig at his intelligence, yet again, pushed John past the saturation point for his omega’s dramatics.

“Then what is it?” He growled.

Rather than a rebuke, he was rewarded for his stern tone with a small smile from his sponsor.

“John, on the luggage, there’s a label. E-mail address.”

Happy to be able to do something at last, John stepped over to the suitcase. It was hard for him not to shake his head in wonder at the absence of limp in his stride. He caught Donovan’s eye on his way and saw the Inspector had noted it too and was frowning at him.

That was a conversation for another day or, hopefully, never.  John dipped his head much happier to settle his eyes on the pink case’s tag.

“Er, jennie dot pink, at mephone dot org dot uk.”

As John read this out, Sherlock strode over to his desk. He opened up his notebook talking to himself as much as to the room’s other occupants.

“Oh, I’ve been too slow. She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone, it’s e-mail enabled.”

John tracked his omega, listening as Sherlock rambled, he couldn’t help but glance to the mantle, hoping the skull was enjoying its vacation.

Gray eyes were glue on the screen as Sherlock pulled up Wilson's Mephone account.

“So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address…” Tabbing down to the password box, slender fingers hovered over the keypad.

“And all together now, the password is?”

John moved away from the case and came to stand behind Sherlock. Looking over his sponsor’s shoulder, it was hard not to lean forward and brush against him, the omega’s scent swirled happy/excited around him.

“Rachel...” John said this in the same tone as he’d previously offered “amazing.” A little spark zinged his chest, noting the sudden pink flush that colored the ridge of Sherlock’s ears.

“So we can read her e-mails. So what?”

Unwilling to release the pleasure of John being pleased with him, Sherlock wasn’t about to lose his praise buzz. “Anderson, don’t talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of your whole dynamic.”

Hoping to pull another bit of acknowledgement from John… not that he’d ever admit this, Sherlock continued to elaborate.

“We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her.”

“Unless he got rid of it,” Lestrade growled lightly.

This earned the sergeant a scowl from John. “We know he didn’t.”

Lestrade cocked a brow at this and he huffed out a breath, not sure he wanted to know how John was so sure.

“Sherlock, Dear...” Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door once more. She was shuffling from foot to foot, apprehensive about getting Sherlock shouting again, but cab driver had filled the stairway during her attempted retreat.

Something about the man, even though he was a beta, didn’t smell right. Although she chalked this up to nerves, at the moment Mrs. Hudson would rather face Sherlock than try and push her way past.

“This taxi driver…”

The computer was taking too long, getting them nowhere. Sherlock rose, his mind hardly hearing the plea in Mrs. Hudson’s voice: his wheels spinning again.

“Mrs Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother?”

Having reached the same conclusion as Sherlock about the computer, John shifted his attention to carefully tracking Sherlock once more. The omega was mumbling, his brilliant mind obviously elsewhere.

“We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter...”

All of a sudden, Sherlock’s attention snapped to Lestrade. “We’re gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won’t last forever.”

“We’ll just have a map reference, not a name.” Donovan grumbled from the edge of the kitchen, where she was stealthily replacing the cloth she’d been holding with a fresh one Anderson had just pulled from his breast pocket and slipped to her.

Sherlock saw this, but refrained from commenting, knowing it would prevent him from being allowed on the chase. “It’s a start!”

A quiet ping told John the phone’s location had been secured. His eyes widened in shock seeing the address.

“Sherlock…”

His alpha’s voice buzzed for his attention, but Sherlock waved a hand at empty air as though it was a gnat. His gray eyes jumped between Donovan and Lestrade, seeking some sort of collusion. “It’ll narrow it down from just anyone in London to a specific place. It’s the first proper lead that we’ve had.”

“Sherlock…”

This time John’s voice was more adamant. Sherlock felt himself pulled over to his alpha, but any reluctance evaporated when he saw the tracking had been completed.

“Quickly, where?”

“It’s here,” John kept his voice low, there was no denying the quiet strain in it. “It’s in two two one Baker Street.”

“How can it be here?” Sherlock’s dark head shot up, his volume undoing John’s attempt to keep the matter between them. “How?”

“Well,” Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck to ease the tension. He could already imagine Donovan and Anderson’s response to this new information. “Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere.”

“What, and I didn’t notice it?” Sherlock’s voice was incredulous. “ _Me?_ I didn’t notice?”

John added his own two pence in Sherlock’s support. “Anyway, we texted him and he called back.”

Donovan didn’t look convinced. “Okay, team! We’re also looking for a mobile somewhere here. Belonged to the victim…”

With these new orders, Donovan’s squad began to rumble about the flat again. John worried this further disruption of his nest might set Sherlock off again, but one glance at his sponsor and it was clear the omega was mentally miles away, lost in thought.

He was so far gone, John heard the text tone for his sponsor’s phone several seconds before Sherlock responded to it. He watched Sherlock open the message. A dozen different emotions mad a mad dash across the omega’s face.

“Sherlock, you okay?”

“What?: Gray eyes had lifted; they stared at the flat’s door, beyond Mrs. Hudson, fixed on the landing. “Yeah. Yeah, I-I’m fine.”

John didn’t buy it, Sherlock’s voice was entirely too distracted. He tried to engage his sponsor and bring him back.

“So, how can the phone be here?”

Far from his usual sharp answers, Sherlock merely hummed. “Dunno.” His focus beyond the apartment door didn’t waver.

“I’ll try calling that number again,” John offered, digging about in his pocket for his own phone.

“Good idea,” Sherlock mumbled. He was almost to the door when John’s head lifted, phone in hand, and saw this.

“Where are you going?”

“Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won’t be long.”

A frown formed on John’s face watching his omega go. His inner alpha clawing to go after. Casting his eyes about, he also felt resistant to leaving his sponsor’s nest unsecured with all the other alphas currently occupying it.

“You sure you’re all right?”

Halfway down the stairs, it sounded like; his omega's voice drifted up to him.

“I’m fine.”

There was something in Sherlock’s tone that just didn’t sit right with John; his gut agreed with his ears. Then his eyes fell on Mrs. Hudson. She was peering over her shoulder and he was sure he saw the older omega shiver.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

She glanced back, her expression almost startled. “I’m fine, Doctor. Just a lot of excitement for an old lady.” She gave him a nervous grin. “I suppose Sherlock’s right; it’s time for a soother.

“Even if it weren’t for the alpha invasion...” Mrs. Hudson shot a disapproving from at Lestrade, who blushed in response. “That cabbie put me off a bit.”

“You want me to walk you down to your door, Ma’am?” Lestrade offered helpfully.

“I think you’ve done enough for one night, Sergeant,” the elder omega sniffed. She dipped her head towards John. “Night dear. I’ll come round tomorrow and help you put everything back right.”

With that Mrs. Hudson headed back downstairs to her nest. John watched her go until Lestrade’s voice brought him back.

“You going to make that call, Mate?” The was a bit of growl in the words and a quick look at Lestrade told John the other alpha was still stinging from Mrs. Hudson’s rebuke.

John pulled up the number and put his phone to his ear. While it rang he headed over to the window and peered out. Down below on the street, Sherlock seemed locked into serious conversation with the driver of the cab parked at the curb.

All of a sudden two things happened at once: the ringing suddenly cut off and from below, Sherlock glanced up. John could have sworn their eyes met for a moment, though the expression on Sherlock’s face was unreadable.

He watched with a growing sense of dread as his sponsor then slid into the cab. A moment later it was away from the curb, swallowed up seconds later by the black street beyond.

“He just got in a cab.”

It wasn’t right. Sherlock had never called a cab. Why would one have been here? Where would they have gone?

John turned to Lestrade, Donovan now standing beside him.

“It’s Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab.”

Donovan lowered her kerchief, revealing a sour expression on her wan face. “I told you, he does that.”

Shifting her attention to Lestrade, her tone became far more accusing. “He bloody left again.” Understood but unsaid was: “And you let him!”

Stepping to the kitchen to round up her team now that Sherlock was gone she called out, “Wrap it up! We’re wasting our time here!”

While the alpha squad gathered their things, John tried the number again. “I’m calling the phone. It’s ringing out.”

“If it’s ringing, it’s not here,” Lestrade’s expression was puzzled.

Ending the call, John moved back to the desk. He picked up Sherlock’s notebook. “I’ll try the search again.”

Donovan was on her way out with her crew, she stopped in front John. “Does it matter?”

Before he could respond, she shifted and glared at Lestrade.

“Does any of it? You know, he’s just a lunatic, and he’ll always let you down, and you’re wasting your time. All our time.”

Lestrade dropped his eyes and his shoulders slumped slightly. It was obvious he was going to have hell to pay when they got back to the station. Donovan sniffed in disgust and raised Anderson's handkerchief back up to her nose, calling out behind her, “Okay, everybody, move out!”

Watching the rest of his team follow after Donovan, Lestrade held back. He ran a nervous hand through his hair and huffed out an unhappy sigh.

“Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?”

Meeting Lestrade’s tired gaze, all his earlier feelings of rivalry left John and instead he found himself feeling badly for the other alpha. He offered a sympathetic shrug.

“You know him better than I do.”

For some reason this just made Lestrade seem even more weary. “I’ve known him for five years. And _no_ , I don’t.”

_Five years…_

John found himself wondering once more why Sherlock had never offered to sponsor Lestrade.

“So why do you put up with him?”

“Because I’m desperate, that’s why.” There was no denying the bitterness in the other alpha’s voice, “You’ve met my boss.” Lestrade picked up his coat from the arm of the couch and headed to the door. Just before he stepped over the threshold, he turned around and addressed John once more.

“And because...” Lestrade’s voice was sad and serious in equal measure, “Sherlock Holmes is a great man.

“And I think one day…” He looked pointedly at John, letting him know that he was committing Sherlock into his care, and the weight of responsibility being Sherlock Holmes’ sponsee carried.

“If we’re very, _very_ lucky, he might even be a good one.”

Lestrade's words rendered John speechless. With a dip of his gray head the Sergeant left him alone to consider his new commission.

With Lestrade's departure the flat fell eerily silent. Surveying the disarray left behind by Donovan’s team John sighed. He glanced towards the kitchen thinking about the glass jar of disrupted eyeballs that waited for him there.

“Crazy omega.”

Turning away he returned to the window and opened it, allowing the damp night air in, hoping it would scour away the residue of scent left behind by Donovan and her crew. He leaned back against the sill, this time his eyes fell on his cane, leaning up against the wall by the door.

_Crazy omega… brilliant… troubled… addict… innocent…_

_And out there on his own now... Again._

John’s mind went to his sponsor’s challenge to “keep up,” and Lestrade’s plea for life as much as luck for Sherlock. Not that he really needed the additional impetus, Sherlock was his omega now and the alpha in him wouldn’t rest until he knew he was safe.

Of course, it would help if he knew where the bloody hell the omega was.

A sudden thought hit John, recalling how Sherlock had scoured the alleys for the missing case… His mind tumbled from here to the missing phone… The strangely timed text and Sherlock’s departure.

_The killer!_

As if fate sought to confirm this, Sherlock’s notebook chimed breaking the stillness of the flat, announcing it had tracked Wilson’s phone’s new location. John grabbed it from the desk and dashed for the door on able legs. Pulling off his collar and pocketing it once more he called out in his alpha voice as he descended the stairs.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’m going to need that neutralizer again!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been amazed by the difference made by the simple inversion of Donovan and Lestrade's characters in this fic. Is it just me? Or do others of you feel it as well?
> 
> Anyways, we're in the home stretch now... Or should I say Holmes' stretch? Tsk, I'm terrible. But just a few more chapters and then the will be the post drama, drama... That I am very excited for.
> 
> Love those kudos and thanks again to all my commenters. Your thoughtful feedback for the last chapter was both thought provoking and immensely helpful. Always a benefit to know how I might improve in terms of story and writing and to know what you as readers are looking for, so that I can tailor future fics to better please you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Marriage for the Ages](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407373) by [lmhawk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmhawk/pseuds/lmhawk)




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